More Effective Than A Nicotine Patch
by VanityFlair
Summary: Sherlock's flatmate John gives him some kind of humanity, but it's the girl in 221C that makes him realize he can't live like a machine. Rated M for language and future scenes of naughtiness
1. Chapter 1

Looking back, I'm pretty sure moving to London was one of the dumbest things I've ever done. If I had stayed in Texas, then none of this would have happened. I could've married some boring, rich Amarillo oil man like my father and led a life of complete ease. Then again, I probably would've been driven insane by the banality of it all. No one in Dallas understood that I didn't want to stay there forever. I wanted to do something more with my life. As soon as I graduated college, I was tempted to run screaming out of America but my parents forced me to stay and start my own business.

That's exactly what I did, though. I started a lingerie company. Bras, panties, corsets, basques, whatever. And the best part was the controversy it had caused in my neighborhood. All those 'good Christian' citizens wagging tongues about my indiscretions and inappropriate clothing. I absolutely loved it, because with the controversy came opportunity to start catering to the obscenely rich housewives of Dallas desperate to keep their husbands. It made for a wonderful paycheck. As soon as I started opening stores in New York and California and had racked up a sizable balance on my bank account I decided it was time to bolt and high-tailed it to London.

That's how I ended up in 221C Baker Street. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was referred to me while I was designing a custom made set for the honeymoon of a young socialite. Her grandmother played bridge with Mrs. Hudson and relayed the information that I was looking for a permanent place to live. I couldn't live in a hotel forever.

It was a particularly damp and dark afternoon when I met with Mrs. Hudson. She showed me down to the flat and was telling me about the one upstairs.

"I would have given you that one," she said, "but it's already gone to this lovely, if not peculiar young man. Oh, and I am sorry about the state of this. It's a bit damp. That's the curse of basements. I had a place once when I was first married. Black mold all up the walls – "

"Mrs. Hudson," I cut her off gently. "It's fine. I'll take it."

I hadn't heard a thing from my upstairs neighbor until a week and a half later. By that time I had made my place far more acceptable. Mrs. Hudson popped in and told me Sherlock, the gentleman upstairs, had gotten a flat mate and was inviting me up to meet them.

"Are you sure I wouldn't be imposing?" I asked.

"Oh no, dear. And besides, it's time you met him anyways."

I walked upstairs to his flat, wondering what kind of man he would be. Knocking lightly on the door, I hoped he was at least nice.

"It's open." Came the voice from inside.

I stepped in to the flat to see a man with impossibly high cheekbones sitting on the couch, staring at nothing in concentration.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting you?" I asked gently.

He turned to me, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"You're not John."

"No, I'm Diana Remus. I live in the basement flat."

"Sherlock Holmes. How many years of ballet?"

"I'm sorry?" I asked. How could he have possibly known that I had taken ballet?

"The way you're standing right now. It's the third position of feet placement of ballet. That says you were at least moderately trained. When you walked, there was a distinct turn out in your steps. Non-dancers are either pigeon toed or have straight feet. You're wearing tight fitting jeans, and the muscles on the back of your legs are very distinct, especially the gastrocnemius, the muscles on the back of your legs. They are especially toned meaning that you've done most of your dancing on the balls of your feet. That tells me you've most likely trained on pointe shoes. So, ballet training en pointe means you were doing it past puberty when your body was fully developed and your ankles were stronger. Training that long usually means that someone will make a career out of it. You didn't, probably because of the injury to your left leg."

"How could you – "

"You have a slight limp from where it healed improperly, probably because you went back to dancing too soon and caused irreparable damage. It doesn't hurt you and you've disguised it as a bounce so people don't notice."

"You noticed."

"Yes, but I notice everything."

I stared into the ice blue eyes of the man in front of me, feeling very small and very impressed at the same time. To save my cheeks from being stained, I took the opportunity to look around his flat, and noticed something odd.

"Do you have company over?"

"No, why?"

"There's an alarmingly pink suitcase on that chair in the kitchen."

Sherlock smiled a toothy grin. "It's evidence in a case I'm working on."

"Oh, you're a detective."

"Consulting detective," he corrected.

"I've never heard of one."

"That's because I invented it," he said, pulling out his cellphone and quickly typing a text.

"So what exactly do you do?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Huh…"

Sherlock typed another message, before turning his gaze to me again.

"That's interesting," he remarked.

"What is?"

"You didn't call me an amateur."

"Why would I do that?"

"Most people aren't as willing to accept that I can actually do something like that."

"Well, I was just analyzed to my face. That's all the proof I need."

He shot an approving glance at me, before gesturing to the suitcase.

"Tell me what you see."

"Oh, um, well…" I walked over and flipped the suitcase open. "It's an overnight bag, and there's only one spare change of clothes, so I'm guessing this woman was only in London for the night. There's an empty travel sized pill case in her toiletry bag, which – "

I turned to Sherlock, "How much do YOU know about this woman?"

"Why do you ask?" He countered, typing another message

"The only time I've seen someone carry around an empty travel pill case is when my parent's neighbor was cheating on her husband. She would slip off the ring and put it in the case and kept it in her purse. Was this woman cheating on her husband."

"She was indeed."

I made a small noise of disapproval before noticing something else. "She has my underwear."

"What?" Sherlock jumped up from his space on the couch to stand next to me.

"Not my personal underwear. It's from my store, I designed this pattern."

"You sell lingerie."

I was suddenly aware of how close in proximity we were.

"Does that make you uncomfortable, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why would that make me uncomfortable?"

"It would most men."

"I'm not most men."

We stood there for what seemed like ages, standing shoulder to shoulder with our gazes locked on each other, when in actuality it could have been mere moments. Sherlock inhaled sharply before returning to his position on the couch. He slapped what looked like a nicotine patch on his arm before lying down.

"You can go ahead and sit down. Tell me what else you see."

However, we were interrupted by a man with sandy blonde hair walking in the flat, aided with a metal cane.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Nicotine patch. It helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work. Diana was just assisting me while you were unhelpfully absent."

"Hi, Diana Remus. I'm down in the basement flat." I walked over to shake the man's hand.

"John Watson. Sherlock's flatmate." John turned his attention to the man on the couch. "Is that three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem."

"Well," I said awkwardly as I edged towards the door. "I should probably go then."

"No," came the reply.

"Or not."

"You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important." John said, sounding as if he was on the verge of aggravation.

"Oh, yes, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Don't want to use mine, always a chance the number might be recognized. It's on my website."

"You could've used mine if you needed," I offered.

"Ah, but that would've been rude, asking for a stranger's phone. No, John's will do."

"I was on the other side of London." John was definitely aggravated now.

"There's no hurry."

"So," I eased in, attempting to reduce the tension, "Is this about your case."

"HER case," Sherlock responded.

"Her case?" John asked.

"Her suitcase. Yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake"

"So she was murdered…fun."

"Fun?" John asked me.

"Well, I'm from Dallas. The closest thing we had to fun was the little stir my career decision caused. A murder is definitely more fun."

"Your career – "

"A text, John," Sherlock intervened. "To the number on my desk."

"Hold on, you brought me here to send a text?"

"Yes, to the number on my desk."

John sighed and took the phone back from Sherlock, pausing only to peer out the window.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked him.

"I've just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?"

"An enemy."

"Oh, which one?"

"Your arch enemy, according to him. Do people have arch enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number."

"Jennifer Wilson. The dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Ye – hang on!"

These men weren't gay…but they had some kind of bizarre bromance going on.

"These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 North Umberland Street. Please come."

"You blacked out?" John asked.

"What? No. No!" Sherlock sighed as he got off the couch and started stepping over boxes to get back to the suitcase. "Type and send it. Quickly. Diana, come here."

I followed behind him as he perched the case that had been left in the kitchen and set in on another chair, flipping it open again.

"That's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, and remarkably Diana was able to tell more from it than you were Jennifer Wilson's body. Oh and perhaps I should mention that I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not, given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock merely smiled.

"What do you mean she could tell more from the suitcase than I could the body?"

"I knew she was having an affair from the fact that she carried around an empty travel size pill case. Also," I started sifting through the clothing. "Pink, pink, pink, pink. Let me guess, she was wearing pink when you found her."

"She was," Sherlock confirmed.

"Ugh, grown women should not be wearing this much pink. I bet her phone is pink too."

"So, Sherlock, you managed to find the case because of pink?"

"Obviously. But do you see what's missing?"

"Of course not, why would I?"

"Diana?"

I paused. "Her phone?"

"Precisely. No phone on the body, no phone in her case. We know she had one so where is her phone?"

"Maybe she left it at home."

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She's never leave it at home."

I shrugged. "The murderer probably took it and – oh my god, John just sent a text to it."

"I texted a murderer. What will that do?"

And then the phone started ringing.

"A few hours after his last victim and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found the phone they'd ignore a text like that but the murderer would panic!"

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked.

"Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police."  
"So why are you talking to us?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull and it'd be rude to bombard Diana with all of this when she wasn't here form the beginning."

"Rude? That's the second time you've mentioned not being rude to Diana, and yet you outed Anderson and his affair with Sergeant Donovan."

I barked out a laugh. "That's priceless. You really did that?"

Sherlock grinned as he put on his coat. "John, are you coming?"

"Sergeant Donovan told me to stay away from you. That you enjoy this."

"And I texted you that there might be danger, and here you are. Diana, please make yourself comfortable. Make yourself some tea. I don't mind. We'll be back in a few."

Sherlock exited quickly, followed by a limping John. I was left behind, wondering many things.

Why wasn't I invited?

What the hell just happened?

Why was I so excited about it?

And then a sneaky smile spread across my face.

I wonder if Sherlock's bedroom door is unlocked.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks bandnerd2669 for the review! I just wanted to clarify something: Diana's thoughts on Texas are intentionally stereotypical. She hated growing up there, so she turned it into a pastiche in her mind in order to justify wanting to move away. It'll become clearer later on.**

It took me a moment to find the drawer I was looking for. I felt like I was in high school again. Boxer raids were probably much more entertaining than panty raids. You could tell a lot about a guy from the kind he wore.  
And apparently Sherlock wasn't a boxer man.  
"Tighty whities?" I choked out, unable to stifle the laughs.  
I had found a large array of boxer briefs, but there was also a good amount of briefs mixed in there as well. And then something that caused my eyes to nearly pop out of my head.  
"T-TARDIS undies?"  
Oh good lord, Sherlock was a closet Whovian. I could just imagine him hiding away from John to watch the episodes in secret. My laughter didn't subside until my cellphone began ringing in my pocket.

"Hello?" I asked, small chuckles still escaping.  
"It's quite rude to go through other people's belongings." Came the voice from the other side.  
And the laughing stopped immediately.  
"I'm sorry, what?"  
"You're going through Sherlock's clothing. I think that's highly inappropriate. Don't you?"  
"How do you even know what I'm doing?"  
"Let's just say I have concerns for Sherlock's wellbeing and like to keep an eye on him."  
"So you plant video cameras in his room or something?" When all I got was silence, I merely rolled my eyes, hoping he could see. "Whatever, big brother."  
I had meant it as a slight to the anonymous voice on the other end of the call, but then something clicked. Concerns for Sherlock's wellbeing, video cameras, big brother.  
"You're his brother, aren't you," I said slowly.  
"Naturally, who else would I be?"  
"I have a few theories."  
"You can tell them to me some other time. You have company coming."  
"What – "  
But I was cut off by the sound of the door opening downstairs.

_Crapcrapcrapcrap Sherlock was home and I was caught craaaaap._

But it wasn't Sherlock. Instead of seeing John and him coming into the living room, I was greeted instead by a large group of policemen and women.  
"Excuse me, what are you doing here?" I asked.  
"Who are you?" A man with salt-and-pepper hair asked me.  
"I asked you first."  
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. And this is a drugs bust."  
"Diana Remus. I live in the basement. Drugs bust?"  
"Found the case," called a man with a rat-like face.  
"Wow, the case that was in the middle of the room. Brilliant detective skills."  
"Just get to work, Anderson."  
_Anderson_, I made a mental note of his face.  
"This isn't a real drugs bust is it? You're just here because of the suitcase. THIS is where the taxpayer's money goes? Just brilliant."  
"I'm sorry, who'd you say you were?" A curly haired woman asked me.  
"Diana, I'm his neighbor."  
"Why are you in the freak's flat?"  
"I'm sorry, what did you call him?"  
"Donovan, just get to work."

_Donovan. Anderson. What, had Lestrade brought a Sherlock hate crew to perform a fake drugs bust?And now she's calling him a freak? All because he exposed her affair with a presumably married man? Oh hell no._

"So you're Sergeant Donovan?" I asked in a sickly sweet voice.  
"Yeah, why?"  
"Nothing, I've just heard an interesting story about you."  
"Oh yeah? What did the freak say?"  
I narrowed my eyes at her, "That's the second time you've called him a freak. You know about American baseball? That's strike two. And no, it was John who told me. He mentioned Anderson's affair with Sergeant Donovan. Now, you don't say 'affair' if both parties are single, and since he said 'Anderson's affair' it means you're fucking a married man. Your mother must be so proud."  
"Now look you, I don't like what you're implying – "  
"I'm not implying anything. I could be wrong. Your relationship with Anderson could be completely platonic. However, I don't think so because you're so desperately trying to not look nervous."  
"How long have you even known him?"  
"Who, John?"  
"Sherlock."  
"Not long."  
"Then why are you defending him?"  
"Why are you judging him?"  
"Ladies, please." Lestrade jumped in. "Donovan get to work. Miss Remus – "  
"Diana, please."  
"Well, Diana, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  
"I'm afraid I can't do that."  
"And why not?"

I didn't actually have an answer, so it was remarkable timing when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I only hoped it was Sherlock, otherwise I'd be horribly embarrassed by what I was going to say.  
"Because Sherlock's home and I want to watch."

Lestrade sighed, throwing his hands in the air and sitting in the leather seat by the fireplace. The flat door opened and I was relieved it was actually Sherlock coming through the door, flanked with John...who wasn't limping anymore. What was that about?

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked Lestrade viciously.  
"Well I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."  
"You can't just break into my flat."  
"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."  
"Well what do you call this then?"  
"It's a drugs bust."  
"Seriously?" John asked incredulously.  
"That's what I said!" I exclaimed.  
"This guy, a junkie," John continued. "Have you met him?"  
"Not what I said," I muttered.  
"John," Sherlock warned.  
"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."  
"John, you probably want to shut up now."  
"Yeah, but come on."  
The pair exchanged a look.  
"No," John replied in disbelief.  
"What?"  
"You?"  
"Oh shut up." He turned back to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog."  
"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."  
Our attention turned to the kitchen, where Anderson leaned out and waved slimily.  
"Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?"  
"Oh, I volunteered."  
"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen."  
"Isn't that somehow unethical?" I asked.  
"Unethical? How about you nearly making Sergeant Donovan cry?"  
"That's not unethical. That's just fun."  
"You nearly made her cry?" Sherlock asked, looking utterly intrigued.  
"It's not a big deal. I merely said her mother must be incredibly proud of her slutty daughter. Well, not those exact words, but that was my meaning."  
Sherlock smirked, "Good girl."

"Are these human eyes?" Sergeant Donovan asked, holding a glass jar.  
"Speak of the hoe-devil!"  
"Put those back!" Sherlock commanded.  
"They were in the microwave."  
"It's an experiment!"  
"Keep looking guys." Lestrade commanded. "Or, you could start helping us properly and I'll stand them down."  
"This is childish." Sherlock hissed.  
"Well I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own, clear?"  
"Or what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"  
"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

John and I exchanged worried glances as Sherlock yelled he wasn't on drugs, holding up his nicotine-patched arm as proof. When the air was clear, Lestrade said they found someone named Rachel.  
"Who is she?" Sherlock asked.  
"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."  
"Daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"  
"Nevermind that, we found the case." Anderson butted in with his oily voice. "According to _someone_ the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."  
"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."  
"Sherlock, do you have any rope?"  
He looked at me confused. "Why?"  
I pointed lazily to Anderson. "Because I want to hog-tie this rat bastard and dangle him in front of a stampeding bull."  
"Oklahoma?"  
"Texas. Why, is my drawl coming through?"  
"Now it is," Sherlock replied with a smirk, as if he had caught me in something.

I merely looked at John, who shrugged in response, confused as well.

""Lestrade, you need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."  
"She's dead"  
"Excellent. Is there a connection? There has to be."  
"Well, I doubt it since Rachel's been dead for 14 years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer's stillborn daughter 14 years ago."  
"Oh, that's…that's not right. Why would she do that? Why?"  
"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments. Yeah, sociopath. I'm seeing it now."  
"Anderson! Two seconds away from being tied up, and I'm not Donovan so you're not going to like it." I scolded.  
"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt."  
I shuddered at the imaginary sensation of scratching a name into a floor.  
"You said the victims all took the poisons themselves, that he makes them take it." John offered. "Well maybe, I don't know talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."  
"That was ages ago, why would she still be upset?"  
"You haven't lost a child." I voice.  
"Have you?" Sherlock countered.  
"Yes," I replied softly.  
The look that crossed Sherlock's face was a mixture of embarrassment, confusion and awkwardness. And it was probably the closest thing to an apology I'd get.  
"But," I attempted to ease out of the awkwardness, "I agree. While she would still be upset, I don't think that's why she wrote her daughter's name."

"John, if you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few moments what would you say?" Sherlock turned to his friend.  
"Please god let me live."  
"Oh use your imagination."  
"I don't have to."

Score two for Sherlock's foot-in-mouth disease.

"What if you were clever? Really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers? She was clever. She's trying to tell us something."  
"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door. "Sherlock, your taxi's here."  
"I didn't order a taxi, go away." He replied, waving her off.  
"Oh, dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"  
"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John told her softly.  
"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."  
I would have found it more entertaining were it not for the fact that Sherlock was currently pacing around the room like a caged tiger.  
"Shut up everybody, shut up. Don't move. Don't speak. Don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."  
"What? My face is?" Anderson sneered.  
"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back." Lestrade commanded.  
"Oh for god's sake."  
"Your back! Now. Please."

"What if it's a password?"  
Suddenly all eyes were on me. There's that small feeling again.  
"W-well my mom uses my name as a password on her computer. Don't most parents do that?"  
"Sherlock, your taxi," Mrs. Hudson pressed.  
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled, his thinking silence broken. "Oh, oh she was clever. Clever. She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. She didn't lose her phone, she planted it on him. She knew she was going to her death. She left the phone to lead us to her killer. Diana you were spot on. John, on the luggage there's a label. E-mail address."  
"Jenny dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."  
"Fucking pink again," I muttered. What was it with that woman and pink.  
Sherlock typed in the email address and the password, which was in fact 'Rachel', into the internet email program for the phone.  
"So we can read her emails, so what."  
"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street."  
"It's a Smart Phone, meaning it's GPS enabled. We can track it" I finished, rolling my eyes. "Are you sure you don't have any rope?" I muttered quietly to Sherlock.  
"If only."  
"What if he got rid of it?" Lestrade asked.  
"We know he didn't." John corrected.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs again, looking both worried and flustered.  
"Sherlock dear, this taxi driver – "  
"Mrs. Hudson," He cut her off, "Isn't it time for your evening soother?"

I leaned over John, who had taken Sherlock's place in the chair in front of the laptop.  
"Has it finished searching yet?"  
"No, but you'd think that phones now would have a faster working GPS'."  
"I had one once that refused to work at all. So I threw it out my car window."  
"You threw it out of your car?"  
"Yeah…it wasn't really a good idea. I ended up in the desert. I had to get directions from a pig farmer with a big wad of chew in his mouth. It was so distracting that I had to have him repeat them three times before I finally got it."  
"Hang on, this map."  
"What about it?"  
"It's zooming into our postal code. Sherlock!"  
"Wait, it's on our street. Sherlock!"  
"What," he asked, coming over to us. "Where is it? Quickly, where."  
"It's on our street. It's in 221B Baker Street."

"How could it be here? How?" Sherlock asked, though he wasn't actually addressing anyone.  
"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere." Lestrade attempted to reason.  
"I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice it?"  
"Anyway, we texted him and he called back." John interjected.  
"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile phone." Lestrade instructed his phony drug squad.  
"Uh, no you're not. There's no way the phone could be here unless the killer broke into the flat and put it here."  
Lestrade opened his mouth to justify the possibility, but I cut him off.  
"No! This flat hasn't been unoccupied since the case got here. No, the phone is with the killer."  
"Then why does it say the phone is here?"  
"GPS' don't always work. The world is an imperfect place."

And while Lestrade and I were arguing, Sherlock slipped out of the flat unnoticed by everyone.  
Everyone but John.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock just left." John whispered to me.

"What?" I looked up from the laptop. "Where'd he go?"

"He said he needed some fresh air."

"So?"

"He seemed off."

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"More so than usual."

John went to the window, mobile to his ear, to check on Sherlock's whereabouts.

"He just got into a cab," he said lowly to me. "It's Sherlock, he just got into a cab."

"I told you, he does that," Donovan sneered. "He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!"

"I'm calling the phone, it's ringing out," John explained.

"This doesn't make any sense," I said wearily, rubbing my temples.

"Well if it's ringing then it's not here." Lestrade commented.

"I'll try the search again," I said, pressing the 'locate' button on the page.

"Does it matter? Does any of it? Yeah, he's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down and you're wasting your time. All our time."

"Donovan," I snapped, "Have you ever wondered what life would be like if you didn't have any teeth?"

"No."

"Do you want to find out?"

"Ladies, cut it out," Lestrade barked. "Okay everyone, we're done here."

The fake drug squad slowly trickled out of the apartment, with Lestrade being the only remaining member.

"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" He asked.

John shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years, and no I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why. Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky he might even be a good one."

And with that, John and I were left with silence.

"So, you lost a child?" John asked cautiously, seemingly uncomfortable in the quiet.

I gave a small smile, "I figured I couldn't escape that explanation for long. I got pregnant my freshman year of college. My parents tried to get me to get an abortion, but I refused. I probably would have been disowned had I not miscarried at three and a half months."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. In a way I guess it's a blessing in disguise. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't happened. But it still hurts knowing your body rejected your own child. That's probably why Jennifer Wilson cheated on her husband."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, her daughter was stillborn, and subconsciously her husband blamed her. He gradually starts pulling away emotionally. She, however, still needs comfort, but her husband is emotionally unavailable. So, she starts seeking comfort from other men. But, she takes off her ring. If the men knew she was married she'd have to explain why she was cheating on her husband. She couldn't do that; the other men would leave too. So, she pretends she's single. It could have carried on for who know how long, but she wound up murdered."

"That's brilliant."

"Thanks."

"You sound just like Sherlock."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Kind of."

"I'll take it. Speaking of Sherlock, what did you guys do when you were out? Do you have any idea who the killer could be?"

"Well, Sherlock mentioned that the victims disappeared in a crowd and that they must have trusted the person they were abducted by even though they didn't know him. And then we chased a cab because Sherlock thought the passenger was the killer."

"And I'm guessing he wasn't." I chuckled.

"Nope. In fact he had just gotten into the country."

We shared a laugh, and then the wheels started turning.

"John?"

"Hmm."

"Do you trust taxi drivers?"

"Um, yes."

"Even though you don't know them?"

Realization dawned on John, "It wasn't the passenger; it was the driver."

"And Sherlock just walked out acting weird and then got into a taxi!"

"He's with the killer!"  
"We have to go. Grab the laptop and meet me downstairs."

I bolted down to my flat and rummaged through the drawer in my nightstand. I pulled out the pistol I had snuck past customs and grabbed my coat to meet John by the front door.

"Does – does your pistol have rhinestones on it?" John asked.

"It was a gift from my mother. Sherlock's with a killer. Are the rhinestones really important?"

"Good point. The search finished, I know where he is."

"Then why are we still here?"

John and I bolted out the door; I hailed a taxi while he locked it behind him.

"A cab, really?" John asked. "After what we just found out?"

"We don't really have much choice. Plus, we're both armed."

"How did you – "

"I saw you putting it in your pocket when I came out of my flat."

As the taxi driver followed the directions John was giving him based on the GPS map in front of him, I called Lestrade, hoping that I didn't leave too bad of an impression at our last meeting.

"Hello?"

"Detective Instpector Lestrade?"

"No, this is Sergeant Phillips. Can I help you?"

"I need to talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I'm sorry, he's not available, but –"

"No, you don't understand, I _need _to talk to him!"

"Ma'am, I – "

"Okay, look. Whenever Lestrade becomes available again, tell him that John Watson and Diana Remus found the pink phone and it's at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. With the killer. Who is going to kill again, got it?"

"Yes ma'am."

I hung up the phone and massaged my forehead, silently praying that we wouldn't be too late.

"We'll make it," John tried to reassure me.

"Can you be sure?"

No answer.

Things weren't made any easier when we arrived at our destination. Two buildings that looked exactly the same, and we didn't know which one Sherlock and the killer were in.

"Split up?" I asked.

"I'll go left, you go right."

"Got it."

I ran through the building, trying every door I could. All locked.

Next wing. One door open, but just a cleaning man. No Sherlock.

Next floor. Absolutely nothing.

I was worried. We were going to be too late.

I kept going. Next floor. There was a light on in a room a few doors away. I got to the swinging doors just as a shot rang out.

Without thinking, I burst in, my pistol drawn and aimed only to find Sherlock staring through a bullet hole in the window unharmed, with just a pill in his hand while the murderer lay wounded on the floor. Sherlock looked surprised at my appearance and my lowered weapon only momentarily, before turning his attention to the bleeding man.

"Was I right?" He asked, holding the pill up to the man's face. "I was, wasn't I. Did I get it right?"

When there was no answer, Sherlock changed his interrogation.

"Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name."

"No," the man said weakly.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name."

The man shook his head, and Sherlock stepped on the wound, causing the man to cry out in pain.

"A name! Now! THE NAME!"

And with his dying breath, the man yelled, "Moriarty!"

Sherlock took his foot off the dead man's shoulder; mouthing the name he was just told.

"I could both slap you and hug you. Do you realize how lucky you are?"

He looked back at me, and whatever astonishment that had been on his face was wiped off.

"I would've been fine."

"You idiot! They could have both been poisoned! He could've stashed an antidote in his car or something! I can't believe you were actually going to take it."

"No I wasn't."  
"Liar. You're reckless to the point of self-destruction just to prove you're smart, aren't you?"

Sherlock was silent, and he just looked at me with those icy eyes of his.

"Your brother would probably have John's and my head on a platter if we let anything happen to you."

"My brother? What do you know of him?"

"I got a rather lovely phone call from him earlier today. He told me he was concerned about you."

Sherlock huffed.

"Concerned with getting in my business, more like it."

"Whatever, Sherlock. The police are probably here, and they'll want to question you."

"You might want to stash that pistol. I doubt you have it here legally."

"Good point."

"Rhinestones?"

"Shut up."

The flashing lights of the police cars greeted us as we walked out of the building. Lestrade came over and began to guide Sherlock over to an ambulance as I followed close behind.

"You'll find the murderer upstairs. He died of blood loss after being shot in the shoulder." Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, we'll get to that later. We just need to get you checked out."

"I'm fine."

"Just do it." I hissed.

I stood by Sherlock as he took off the orange shock blanket the paramedic kept putting on him.

"Why have I got this blanket – they keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." Lestrad explained.

"I'm not in shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock paused, obviously disgruntled by this, "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here, but a guy like that would've had enemies I suppose. One of them could've been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade sighed. "Okay, give me."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun," Sherlock said as he stood up. "A killshot form that distance from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for but not a marksman. A fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and…nerves of steel – "

Sherlock trailed off. He looked surprised by something in the distance.

"Sherlock," I pressed gently.

"Actually, you know what? Ignore me." He finished.

"I'm sorry?" Lestrade asked.

"Ignore all of that, it's just the, uh, the shock talking."

He began to walk off, grabbing my elbow lightly to steer my in his intended direction.

"Where are you going?"

"I, uh, need to talk about the rent."  
"I've still got questions."

"Oh what now? I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock!"

"And I've just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

"Okay, we'll put you in tomorrow."

Once we were out of earshot, I asked Sherlock, "You know who shot him, right?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

But my question was unanswered when we walked under the yellow tape and over to John.

"Uh, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything ." John said. "Two pills? Dreadful business, isn't this. Dreadful."

"Good shot," was all Sherlock said.

"Good sho – ooooooh" I said as I realized why Sherlock had stopped deducing the possible shooter, feeling stupid I hadn't realized it before.

"Yes, yes, good shot through that window."

"Well you'd know. Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't think you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

"Are you alright?" I asked John, figuring Sherlock probably wouldn't ask.

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well you have just killed a man."

"True, but he wasn't a very nice man."

"No, he wasn't really, was he." Sherlock mused.

"Yeah, and frankly a bloody awful cabby."

"That's true he was a bad cabby. You should've seen the route he took us to get here."

John and I laughed, "Oh this is so inappropriate. We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

"Yeah well John's the one who shot him."

"Can you keep your voice down," John laughed and scolded as we passed Sergeant Donovan, "Sorry, it's just, um, nerves." He explained weakly. "You weren't going to take that damn pill, were you?"

"Of course I wasn't."

"Here we go again," I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Biding my time, knew one of you would turn up."

"No you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Do you and Diana talk about me behind my back?"

"Why," John asked.

"Because I said the same thing when he told me he wasn't going to take the pill."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked.

"Because you're an idiot." John countered.

"Amen," I agreed.

Sherlock merely smiled at us.

"Dinner?" He asked.

"Starving," John replied.

"I can always eat." I admitted.

"At the end of Baker Street there's a Chinese place that stays open til 2. You can always tell a good Chinese place by the bottom third of the door handle."

"Sherlock that's the man I was telling you about." John nodded towards a man getting out of a sleek black car.

"The one who tried to bribe you?" I asked. John nodded.

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock said as he marched up to the man.

"Well, another case cracked. How very public spirited." The man said. "But that's never your motivation, is it?"

_Wait…I know that voice._

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked him.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern."

"Always so aggressive. Has it never occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"We have more in common than you like to believe." The man turned to me, "Miss Remus, pleasure to meet you face to face."

"And you. Nice to finally put a face to the voice."

"What?" John asked.

"Oh, we just had a nice little chat."

"Shall I tell Sherlock the circumstances of our chat?"

"No, and you never will," I said sternly.

He merely smiled, before turning back to Sherlock. "This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy."

"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, wait," John interjected. "Mummy, who's mummy?"

"Mother." Sherlock answered. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft countered.

"He's your brother?" John was having an incredibly hard time grasping that fact.

"Of course he's my brother."

"So he's not…"

"Not what?"

"I dunno, criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough."

"For goodness sake," Mycroft chuckled. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."

With that, Sherlock walked away with me at his side.

"You talked to Mycroft."

"I think we've established that already."

"About what?"

"About you. He warned be about the drugs bust."

"He warned you?"

"You sound surprised. He probably didn't want his little brother to get into too much trouble."

"Pfft, I doubt it."

"Has it ever occurred to you that he might actually be concerned about you?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Oh, Sherlock. Silly, silly Sherlock. You don't fool me for a second."

"What do you mean?"

"You think your emotions will cripple you. And, who knows, maybe you're right. But you're detached to the point of delusion and you can't see that there are people out there who might actually care about you."

Before Sherlock could respond, John bounded up to us, breathing slightly heavily.

"Thanks for waiting, guys," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, sorry John, we didn't realize you weren't with us." I apologized.

"Obviously," he countered, although there was no real anger behind his words. "So dim sum, then?"

"Mm, yes," Sherlock said distractedly. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" John asked.

"In Afghanistan, there was an actual would."

"Oh, yeah shoulder."

"Shoulder, I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do," I interjected.

"What are you so happy about?" John asked Sherlock.

"Moriarty," was his reply.

"What's Moriarty?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"It's what the killer said before he died." I explained, "Whatever Moriarty is sponsored him to kill."

Sherlock was distracted as the trio walked to the restaurant. His thoughts were jumbled with possible identities of Moriarty and the words that Diana had said earlier.

_Actually care about me? What did she mean by that? _Sherlock wondered as he walked beside the chatting figures of John and Diana.

Because for everything he knew about the world, there was so much that he couldn't grasp. And that bothered him to no end.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **

**radientmoonandstars****: I am planning on doing all the episodes (or at least, the parts that Diana is present for), but there will be original material added in.**

**bandnerd2629****: I agree that the little things make the story better. I tried to sneak in a description of Diana without it being too tacky or obvious.**

**snakeyeslover2: ****Yes, duct tape would be more effective, but doesn't the mental imagery of Anderson being gored by a bull just warm the cockles of your heart?**

* * *

We arrived home with the take away and brought it up to Sherlock and John's flat. I excused myself momentarily to put my gun away and change into more comfortable clothing. When I returned to the upstairs flat, I found only Sherlock there.

"John explained the child thing to me while you were downstairs. He said I should apologize."

I waited.

"Okay," I said.

So apologies weren't Sherlock's thing. He didn't like to admit he'd done wrong. I couldn't really fault him for that; no one liked to be wrong.

"So where is John?" I asked, sitting beside Sherlock on the couch.

"He went to bed. Decided I should apologize without his help."

"You don't like apologizing, do you?"

"I don't like admitting I'm wrong."

"Same thing."

"So," he said as he grabbed a box of food. "You observe almost as well as I do."

I breathed a laugh, "That's the second backhanded compliment I've gotten today."

_And the second one about being like you_.

"But _why_ do you see like me? No one else can, aside from Mycroft."

I shrugged. "Probably from growing up in the neighborhood that I did."

"Oh?"

"In that environment, people could be incredibly fake. It was all about appearances. Their money served as a shield and they could do whatever they wanted because of that protection. It was like a grown up version of high school everywhere you looked. I learned to look a helluva lot closer to people to see what their real intentions were. It's a lot harder to get played if you know someone is lying to you. And sure, whatever, not all of Texas is like that. Not everyone is out to get you. But I didn't want to take that chance."

"You grew up in an extremely affluent neighborhood where people like traditions and have a strong dislike for anything different."

"How'd you figure that one out?" I asked, shooting a half-smile his way.

"Your shoulders."

"Oh?"

"The dancing I mentioned when we first met led me to the conclusion that your family had enough money to put you into classes all those years, but it wasn't until I started watching you move that I noticed something else. If you're not in a hurry you glide from place to place, but you don't do it knowingly meaning you're not trying to impress people. That means there's been some kind of training for that as well. When you sit down in a chair you tuck your feet in under you and if they're not occupied elsewhere you place your hands on your lap. This says you had some kind of etiquette training. Straight back instead of slouching in a neighbor's flat: obviously raised in a house where manners are everything. But it wasn't just a breeding thing; no you had some kind of proper training. Your southern origin suggests a traditional sort of family, most likely one that participates in debutante balls. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Of course I am," he grinned. "So, Texas, traditional family and enough money to put you in both ballet classes and have you introduced to society indicates that you come from a substantially wealthy family. My guess is that your father is in oil?"

"He is."

"And how was I on all the rest."

"Remarkably accurate, as always."

"I love being right."

"I've noticed."

There was a moment of comfortable silence between us.

"So is this what life is normally like for you?"

"Hmm?"

"Running around solving cases, dancing with death, catching the bad guy and," I looked at him and chuckled, "shoveling Chinese food into your mouth like you haven't eaten in days?"

"I haven't eaten since the case started," Sherlock said through a mouthful of fried rice. "Digestion slows brainwork."

"I see."

"But yes," he swallowed. "This is what my life is like. Though it's much more entertaining with company along."

"I'll bet. You had no one to notice how brilliant you are."

Sherlock merely grinned. I put my box of food back on the table.

"I should probably get to bed. Let me know if something interesting happens tomorrow, kay."

"I'll text you. My number's in your phone."

"How did you – I don't even want to know. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Diana."

I woke up to the sound of a scuffle upstairs. It wasn't loud enough to be coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat, but there were definite sounds of bodies hitting walls and the floor.

_What on earth was Sherlock doing?_

I ran a hand through my bed tousled hair as I grabbed my robe off the bedpost and threw it on. I trudged up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat, expecting them to have had what Mrs. Husdon lovingly called a 'little domestic'. However, I was met with the sight of a robed and turbaned man passed out in Sherlock's chair.

"Uh, Sherlock? Who's that?"

"Someone who wouldn't take no for an answer…" he trailed off as he turned to look at me, confusion spreading across his face.

"What – " I looked down at what could have caused him to stop speaking and felt my cheeks flood with heat.

I was only wearing a sports bra, I had forgotten to put pajama pants on, and my robe had slipped open.

_Shiiiiit_.

I quickly closed my robe, my cheeks burning. "This didn't happen," I told him.

Sherlock merely smirked, "Just put some pants on and help me get him out of here."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I realized it was a lost cause.

"Fine."

_I wonder if this is how John feels?_

_Hmm…_ Sherlock mused as he watched her descend the stairs. _She has tattoos._

He wouldn't have thought of her as someone who had tattoos. Then again, she was the only thing in his life that had, so far, consistently surprised him.

She looked ordinary enough. Long, synthetically red hair and dark green-gray eyes, her nose looked as if it had been pierced at one time. He could always tell what she was thinking because she wore her heart openly on her sleeve. Her face was a book, and he could read everything about her in the slightest movement.

And yet, she always seemed to surprise him. She correctly deduced Jennifer Wilson's affair, and that Rachel was a password. And now he finds out about the tattoos. A Dali elephant on her left side and the phases of the moon on the right.

But he couldn't think about that for long. She was coming back into the room.

"Better?" She asked, gesturing to her outfit, a green plaid button down and a pair of jeans.

"Yes." He jerked his head to the still-unconscious man on the chair. "Get his arms."

I grunted at the weight as Sherlock and I lifted the man off the chair and began to attempt to get him downstairs without dropping him.

"Oh don't mind that," Sherlock scolded, seemingly reading my mind.

"What, you don't care if we drop him?"

"He was trying to slice my face open with a sword, no I don't care. Plus, it could be useful to keep him unconscious for a while."

I rolled my eyes as well as I could under the strain. We finally managed to lug him down to the back alleyway and dumped him behind Mrs. Hudson's trash bins. Sherlock took out a little note pad and a pen from his pocket and scribbled a little note on a sheet, tore it out and crumpled it up, and then put it in the man's hand.

"It's a little message from me. A reminder." He explained when he saw my questioning look.

"So," he started as we walked back into the flat, "Tattoos?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah."

"A Dali elephant and moon phases. Why those?"

"Well first off…my name…"

His expression told me he didn't get it.

"Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon." I explained slowly, "Remus, brother of Romulus the founder of Rome, raised by a wolf. Wolves howl at the moon. Nothing?"

"And Dali?"

"He's my favorite artist."

"You like them weird."

"Well, I'm friends with you, aren't I?" I countered, smirking.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time.

_Damn, I have a meeting with those contractors._

"I've got to go. Text me if something interesting happens?"

"Of course."

But even after meeting with the contracting company about the construction work needed and working out payments to create my store, I hadn't received any texts. Sherlock and John weren't home when I returned, but I hoped I could catch them in the morning. I just hoped I hadn't missed out on anything too terribly exciting.

When I stepped into the upstairs flat, I saw Sherlock staring at a collection of photographs pinned above his fireplace.

"Anything interesting?"

"Bank robbery turned into a homicide."

"And what are these?" I gestured to the photographs.

"Some kind of symbols. I can't work out what they're supposed to mean."

My head turned as I heard John walking into the kitchen. He had a hazy smile on his face, and looked semi-distracted as he set his jacket down on his chair.

"I said could you pass me a pen?" Sherlock asked.

I was confused. He had never actually said that.

"What, when?" John asked.

"About an hour ago."

John looked at me in confusion, I merely shrugged. Sherlock's mind was a mystery to us both. John sighed and tolled his eyes, grabbing a pen of the small table by his chair.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then." He said, tossing Sherlock the pen, who caught it without looking. "I went to see about a job at that surgery."

"How was it?"

"Great. She's great."

"She?" I asked, raising my eyebrow in amusement.

"What?"

"You said she." I replied.

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No, I said 'it'."

"No, you said – "

"John, you said she. Now shut up and take a look!" Sherlock snapped, jerked his head towards the laptop open on the desk.

"The intruder who can walk through walls." John read aloud as I looked over his shoulder.

"Happened last night." Sherlock explained. "Journalist shot dead in his flat. Door locked. Windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God. You think...?"

"He's killed another one."

"What, are you guys talking about the murder that happened yesterday?" I asked.

"It was linked to graffiti left at the bank."

"Those symbols?" I asked, pointing to the pictures Sherlock had been continuously staring at.

John nodded.

"And now it's linked to another murder?" I looked back at the screen. "But this guy is a journalist. What on earth could link him to bank graffiti?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

"They are," he said, standing up quickly. "I just need to find out how. And _certain_ people better help this time."

Without another word, he got up and grabbed his jacket. As he headed out the door and down the stairs, John and I shared a sigh and followed suite.

"I wonder if he'll ever actually invite us anywhere _verbally_?" I asked John.

"I wouldn't put money on it."

We rode with him in the cab to New Scotland Yard, neither of us attempting conversation with him because his face was contorted into his 'thinking face'. When we arrived, Sherlock made a beeline towards his intended destination. When we passed Lestrade's office, though, I because confused.

"Why aren't we going to Lestrade?" I asked John, figuring Sherlock wouldn't answer.

"There's a new Detective Inspector that's been assigned to this case. Dimmock."

Sherlock stopped at a desk that I could only assume belonged to Dimmock, since the man sitting on it looked at Sherlock with disbelief. Sherlock put the laptop he had brought with him on the desk and began typing.

"Brian Lukis. Freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat. Doors locked from the inside." he finished, flipping the laptop to face Dimmock.

"You've got admit it's similar. Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls!"

Dimmock shot us a glance, obviously unwilling to admit Sherlock was right.

"Inspector? Do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock questioned. When he got no response, he pressed on. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

Dimmock nodded.

"And?" Sherlock continued. "The shot that killed him, was it fired from his own gun?"

"No." he begrudgingly answered.

"No. So. This investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

Still, nothing. This Detective Inspector was thoroughly unwilling to let Sherlock be right. Sherlock, now getting more than just a bit annoyed, got up close and personal with him.

"I've just handed you a murder enquiry. Five minutes in that flat."

Dimmock looked only slightly more accepting, but I knew there was nothing else Sherlock could do to change his mind. I was just glad I wore a semi-low cut shirt.

"Detective Inspector," I poured on the honey, slightly shoving Sherlock out of the way in the process.

"Peter," he said, clearly attempting to hide interest.

_Gotcha._

"Peter," I repeated, smiling sweetly. "Listen, I really think it could benefit both parties if you would let us into that flat. If we don't find anything, then there's no harm done. Just five minutes, please?"

I just hoped the puppy dog eyes I used on my dad would work on this guy too. He exhaled slowly.

"Sure." He said, rising out of his chair. "Follow me."

I waited for him to pass so I could flash Sherlock a 'suck it' expression. A sour look spread across his face, and John chuckled at the both of us.

Lukis' flat was, dare I say it, worse than 221B. There were books and papers all over the flat. Of course, it may have been because he was a journalist, but it also could have been because he was incredibly messy. My nose wrinkled at the state of his kitchen. Sherlock, however, had no such distractions. He glanced around as soon as he walked in, before pulling the curtain of the street facing window aside.

"Four floors up." he said in almost a whisper. "That's why they think they're safe. Put the chain across the door, bolt it shut. They think they're impregnable."

He stepped away, scanning the room for something we couldn't see.

"They don't reckon for one second there's another way in."

"I don't understand." Dimmock said as Sherlock passed him, making his way towards a hallway.

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb."

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asked as Sherlock began inspecting a skylight

"He clings to the wall like an insect." Sherlock popped open the window. "That's how he gets in."

"What?"

"He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof and dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious? What, like Spiderman?"

"He scaled a sixth floor balcony in Docklands and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon."

"Hold on..."

"And of course that's how he got into the bank, he ran along the ledge and on to the terrace."

Sherlock stepped down from the chair he had been standing on.

"We have to find out what connects these two men."

He began looking around and then noticed something on the stairs. He picked up a red book and flipped the cover open. After looking for a split second, he snapped the book shut and headed out the door.

"That's our cue," John said, nudging me towards the door. I followed without complaint.

I had never been to West Kensington Library. There wasn't much need since I wasn't a huge fan of renting books anyways, but I thought I could spend many hours in it purely for the fact that it was so gorgeous. I was only half-paying attention to following John and Sherlock, so when they stopped abruptly I accidentally bumped into John's back.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"It's fine."

"The date stamped in this book is the same day he died." Sherlock said, taking a book off the shelf

The books are on sliding racks. One rack is labeled 'POLITICAL SCIENCE - SOUTH EAST ASIA'. The serial number on the book matches the numbers on this rack. John and I did that same, though I wasn't entirely sure what we were looking for.

"Sherlock." I heard John say from behind me.

I turned around and looked as Sherlock came and stood by John's side. Scrawled across the back of the shelf were two massive graffiti symbols written in bright yellow aerosol. They were the same as the ones from the pictures at the bank - a horizontal line and a scrawled tag.

As we were walking out of the bank, something hit me.

"Wait, how could the killer have known exactly where to put the tag?"

"What did you call it?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"A tag, it's the term street artists use for their signature." I explained.

Sherlock seemed to mull this over for a second.

"I'm sure it'll become obvious when I find out what links these two men." He replied briskly.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:**

**88dragon06****: Thanks! I tried to make her the least Mary-Sue-ish as possible, but I didn't want to make her 'normal' because that's not how Sherlock works.**

* * *

Back in 221B, Sherlock printed out the pictures of the symbols John had found on the library that he had taken on his phone. Once he had pinned them up, the three of us started at them in silence. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"So. The killer goes to the bank - leaves the threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his flat and locks himself inside. Just hours later... he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home..." John said next.

"... later that night he dies too." I finished.

We stared at the display - four yellow images.

"Why did they die, Sherlock?"

"Only the cipher can tell us." He replied, running his finger over the picture of the defaced painting. He tapped it slightly, getting an idea, before grabbing his coat again.

"Let's go." He said as he left for the stairs.

"Verbal invitation," I said to John as we followed.

"Yeah, maybe he's learning," he laughed slightly.

We ended up in Trafalgar Square. We passed the lion statues that I had always wanted to climb, but it wasn't an option that day. Sherlock was walking quickly towards the National Portrait Gallery, and while John could keep up fairly well, I had to jog slightly to keep up. Damn Sherlock's long legs.

"The world is run on codes and ciphers," Sherlock was explaining, "from the million pound security system at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to... cryptography inhabits our every waking moment..."

"Yes. OK. But..." John trailed off.

"But it's all computer generated. Electronic codes – electronic ciphering methods. This is different: it's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods can't unravel it."

"Where we headed?"

"I need to ask some advice."

"What? Sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice."

"On painting. Yes. I need to talk to an expert."

We followed Sherlock up the stairs, but he cut around and made his way down a side alley.

"Um, Sherlock? Where are you going?" I asked, now thoroughly confused. No response. "Sherlock?"

Up in front of us, spray painting on the side of the building, looked to be your average teenage hoodlum. He was wearing hoody and over-sized jeans and had a kit bag at his feet and an aerosol can in hand. When we got closer, we could see what he was spraying on the walls – a policeman with a pig's face.

"Part of my new exhibition." The kid said without even turning around.

"Interesting."

"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy.'"

"Mm. Catchy." John said, clearly not meaning it

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this whilst I'm working?" The kid turned around, noticing me next the Sherlock. "Well hello, gorgeous."

"Focus, Raz" Sherlock scolded, handing him the phone.

_Raz, what the hell kind of name is that? _

Raz tossed the spray can to John so he could look. John was clearly not happy about being forced to hold it. Raz began flicking through the photographs.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asked.

"Recognize the paint. Looks like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc." he replied.

"And what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"I'm not even sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this - it's the key to finding who killed them."

"This is all you got to go on? It's not really much, is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?"

"I'll ask around."

"Someone must know something about it."

Our conversation was cut short, however, by two community service officers rounding the corner.

"Oi!" One of them called as they began jogging towards us.

Sherlock grabbed his phone out of Raz's hand, before grabbing my wrist and sprinting off. We didn't stop running until we reached the main road. Sherlock released his grip to call a cab, shaking his hand slightly as if he had been burned. I noticed a slight tingle in the place where he had been holding. As I tried to catch my breath, I looked around.

"Where's John?"

"He must have not run." Sherlock surmised.

"But then he'd get caught."

"Yes, but he can handle the charges. You, with a store opening, don't need that kind of press."

"How uncharacteristically thoughtful of you." I said as I climbed into the cab that had pulled up.

"It's not uncharacteristic. I just don't show it." He replied, shutting the door behind him.

When we got back to the flat, Sherlock had me print pages off the internet. Egyptian hieroglyphics, the Greek alphabet, Hebrew letters, Arabic letters, Chinese words, anything that could lead us to cracking the cipher. He stuck them all around the edge of the mirror, joining them with the original four pictures of the cipher. He stared at it unblinkingly, trying to find a match for the strange yellow squiggle. I didn't see how any of it could fit. The scribbled tag was just too messy - it defied interpretation. From behind us, I could hear John enter the flat. From the way he had slammed the door and how he was walking, I figured he was furious. And rightly so.

"You've been a while." Sherlock said, not looking up from the book of runes he was currently perusing.

"Yeah, well you know how it is... Custody Sergeants don't like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Finger prints; a charge sheet. And I'll have to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday..."

"What?"

"Me, Sherlock. In court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO."

"Good. Fine." Sherlock was clearly not listening.

"You want to tell your little pal: he's welcome to go and own up, anytime..."

"John, I am so sorry," I told him.

"Don't worry, Diana. It's not _your_ fault," John replied, pointedly staring at Sherlock.

"This symbol - I still can't place it."

John had started to take off his coat, but Sherlock wouldn't let him.

"No," he said, forcing the coat back on John's shoulders. "I want you to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist...all his personal effects will be impounded. Get hold of a diary – or something that will tell us his movements...Diana, stay here and see if you can get anything."

And with that, I was alone in their flat. Again. I don't know what he expected me to find. If he couldn't have cracked the code, there was no way I could. I sighed and leaned back in the leather chair I was sitting on. His leather chair. I rubbed my wrist subconsciously.

_Why did he do that?_ I wondered.

It was just too weird.

I just sat there, staring at the symbols, hoping some kind of lightning would strike and I could solve the puzzle. But nothing came to me. I had started to doze off when my text alert jolted me back.

**Meet us at National Antiques Museum. – SH**

They must have found something, which was good because I did not want to be stuck in that flat alone any longer than I had to. I grabbed my coat and went outside to hail a cab. Sherlock and John were waiting for me on the museum's steps when I arrived. I followed the pair inside as John explained the cipher was Hang Zhou, an ancient Chinese numbering system.

"So, why are we here, exactly?" I asked.

"There was a flat in Chinatown broken into with a note leading us here. If it'll give us any leads, we've got to follow it." he explained.

We met up with the writer of the note, Andy. He seemed a decent fellow. A bit too eager to please for my taste, but he seemed nice enough.

"When was the last time you saw her?" Sherlock asked him.

"Three days ago. Here, at the museum. This morning - they told me she'd resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished." Andy said sadly.

Sherlock looked around the exhibition. There was an Empress' mannequin, a glass cabinet with teapots, what was labeled 'the Jade exhibition' and a wall of Benefactors' names. I didn't see how any of it could help.

"What was the last thing she did - on her final afternoon?" Sherlock continued.

Andy paused for a moment, thinking, before bringing us to the store room of the museum. When he turned on the light, I saw what I could only think of as an art graveyard. There were broken antiquities, limbs and torsos from statues, and statues wrapped in dust sheets. Andy pointed us towards a rolling cabinet. There was a section open, and the Chinese artifacts were there before us.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists - a tea ceremony. She'd have packed her things away and put them in here. " he indicated

Andy began to unroll the cabinets so we could take a better look, but Sherlock got distracted by something. When the rest of us looked, what we saw made my breath catch in my throat. There in front of us, desecrating a Greek marble statue, was the same Chinese death cipher. The squiggly symbol was on the stomach, and the straight line had been sprayed across the eyes, just like it had been on the bank portrait.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao..." Sherlock said as we walked out of the museum.

"If she's still alive!" John countered.

"Sherlock!" Came a voice form behind us.

We turned around to see Raz jogging up.

"Well, look who it is..." John muttered.

"I've found something you'll like." he said as he caught up with us, pausing only to speak before walking off.

Clearly, he was expecting us to follow him. What was it with guys and non-verbal invitations? He led us across the Hungerford Bridge. Twinkling lights reflected in the Thames below. I kind of wished I was able to just stop and take in the sights, but there was no time now.

"Tuesday morning. All you've got to do is turn up and say the bag was yours." John instructed Raz, still determined to get off the charges.

"Can we forget about your court date?" Sherlock brusquely replied.

We arrived on the South Bank and followed Raz underneath the Hayward gallery. There were teenage skaters and bicyclists rolling around the place. The walls were thick with graffiti - street art from hundreds of different authors. I stared at the myriad colors, because I couldn't understand what was actually written.

"If you wanted to hide a tree then the best place to do it is a forest, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said as we walked in. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing - not able to decipher the message."

"There." Raz pointed. "I spotted it earlier."

I followed his finger towards the wall. Someone had painted a huge tag but underneath, just barely visible, were the remnants of the yellow zinc paint - just a few tantalizing splashes left exposed. They had been here, but there was nothing comprehensible to go off of.

"And that's the exact same paint?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah."

"John, if we're going to decipher this language we're going to need more evidence." Sherlock instructed.

I followed Sherlock without realizing. I suppose it would have been better to go with John, since I was slightly more observant than he, but I had no idea where he'd gone. I was not about to get lost in a strange area at night. I followed him down the railway line as he shined his flashlight about. Lying in the tracks was an empty aerosol can, bright yellow dripping around the nozzle. Sherlock picked it up and sniffed the paint. I wrinkled my nose and carried on walking, trying to find any more traces of the paint. The moonlight illuminated graffiti in the area, making them glow eerily, but none were what I was looking for.

I felt Sherlock beside me as we reached an area that was thick with fly-posters - gigs and club events. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but Sherlock stared at one hard. He tore a strip off at the bottom of it, putting it in his pocket.

"What's that?"

"Poster for a Chinese circus. Performing for only one night."

"You think they're linked to the cipher?"

"Possibly. Only one way to find out," he grinned.

We were near a train car when John came running up.

"Answer your phone, I've been calling you! I found it."

We took off running, following John to where he said he found the cipher. But when we got there, we were met with only a blank, black wall.

"It's been painted over," John said disbelievingly. "I don't understand; it- it was here. Ten minutes ago, I saw it. A whole load of graffiti.

I reached out and touched the walls slightly. My fingers came back black.

"It's fresh," I told them.

"Someone didn't want me to see it." Sherlock decided.

Quick as a flash, he grabbed John by the head - planting both his hands on his friend's skull.

"Hey - Sherlock! What you doing?"

"Shush, John. Concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes!"

"What? What, why? Why? What you doing?"

Sherlock clamped John's arms to his sides - spins round with him, trying to induce a trance-like state.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah."

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How much can you remember?"

"Well, don't worry – "

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two per cent accurate."

"Yeah, well don't worry, I remember all of it."

"Really?"

"At least I would if I can get to my pockets." John wrestled out of Sherlock's grip. "I took a photograph."

John pulled out his phone out and showed the picture to us. The new cipher. We rushed back to the flat to join this picture with the others. I was tasked with identifying and writing the translated numbers over the graffiti. Before I realized, dawn began to peep through the curtains. Sherlock was still staring at the collage on the wall.

"Always in pairs. Look."

Both John and I muttered responses, barely paying attention from lack of sleep. I had no idea how Sherlock could go on for hours.

"Every number comes with a partner..."

"God, I need to sleep." John mumbled.

"Why did he paint it so near to the tracks?"

"No idea…"

"Thousands of people pass by there every day..."

"Just twenty minutes..."

"Maybe he wanted it seen, just not by you," I mumbled, my head resting on my folded arms.

"Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with all his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen - he wants it back. And it's somewhere here - in a code." He began grabbing the papers off the wall. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

With that he took off.

"Oh, good." John muttered, pulling me up. "If I have to go, you have to go."

It was mid-morning when we arrived at the museum. Sherlock tracked down Andy.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hang Zhou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger." John explained. "Now that cipher, it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

"Look, I've tried everywhere. Her friends; her colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

Sherlock, however, wasn't listening. He was staring at something into the distance.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" I asked. "What are you looking at?"

"Tell me more about those tea pots." he said, pointing to small clay teapots in a glass case.

"Those pots were her obsession. They need urgent work. If they dry out the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them."

"Yesterday only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two."

We came back to the museum later that night, hiding when they closed down. There was a small grating noise in the distance, as if someone was climbing out of a ventilation shaft or something. We padded silently towards the restoration room. When we saw a small patch of light, John and I hung back while Sherlock ventured forward.

There, at the work table, was a woman carefully sloshing the tea around inside of a small clay teapot, coating the pot with the glaze.

"Fancy a biscuit with it?" Sherlock said from behind her, startling her.

She dropped the pot in surprise, but Sherlock rescued it before it smashed on the floor.

"Centuries old. Don't want to break it."

From beside me, John turned on the light. We walked over to them, and I got a good look at her. She was beautiful, pale and fragile. She looked nervous, her eyes darting around every so often.

"You saw the cipher? Then you know that he is coming for me." She started shakily.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far." Sherlock told her.

"I had to finish. To finish this work. But it is only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he? Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin nodded. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his... 'signature'."

"The cipher?"

"Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu."

"Zhi Zhu?" John asked.

" 'The spider'." Sherlock clarified.

Soo Lin bagan unlacing her shoe. She took off her sock, lifting her foot to show a small circular tattoo on her heel. A black lotus flower inscribed in a circle.

"You know this mark?" she asked us.

"Yes. It's the mark of a Tong." Sherlock answered. When he noticed John and my quizzical looks, he clarified. "An ancient crime syndicate. Based in China.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark - everyone who hauls for them."

"Hauls? You mean... you were a smuggler?" I asked.

"I was fifteen," she replied sadly. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way to surviving day to day, except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock asked.

"They are called the 'Black Lotus'. By the time I was sixteen I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England - they gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."

"And then he came looking for you?" he pressed.

"Yes." she began to choke back tears. "I had hoped after five years...maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours - they are never very far away. He came to my flat. He asked me to help him - to track down something that was stolen."

"You've no idea what it was?" John asked.

She shook her head. "I refused to help."

"You knew him well?" John continued. "When you were living back in China?"

"Oh yes. He is my brother."

My heart dropped. I couldn't even begin to imagine what this poor woman was going through, being hunted by her own brother.

"Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet - in the power of the one they call Shan - Black Lotus General. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pictures of the ciphers. He set them on the table before her.

"Can you decipher these?" he asked.

"These are numbers."

"Yes, I know."

"Here. The line across the man's eyes. It's a Chinese number '1'."

"And this one is '15'? But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book..."

And then the lights went out. Someone had cut the power and plunged us into darkness.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." she whispered into the shadows.

Sherlock sprinted out of the room, calling after him. I pulled Soo Lin over to another table, pulling her onto the floor. John sat on the other side of her. We sat in silence, just waiting.

Until we heard the gunshots.

"I've got to go and help him. Bolt the door after me." John whispered as he got up and left.

"John!" I hissed after him.

But he was gone.

Goddammit, why didn't I bring my gun?

More gunshots. Soo Lin grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly. She was frightened beyond everything.

"Soo Lin," I whispered. "Now may be our only chance. Do you have the book with you?"

"Yes," she breathed unsteadily.

"We need you to help us translate."

She nodded warily. We crept over to her table. She knelt down and opened a small satchel on the floor. That's when I noticed the bullets had stopped. My ears strained in hopes that I would hear something. At the far side of the room, I heard faint footsteps. I knew what I was about to do was dumb, but we needed that cipher translated.

"Start working on it," I whispered to her. "I'm going to go check something out.

If distracting this guy would keep her alive to get the cipher, then I needed to do it. I just hoped his aim would be bad in the dark and he'd hit me in the shoulder or something. But there were no shots.

Instead, I felt a sharp, searing pain on the side of my face and blackness overtook me.

**Cliffhanger! Ha, don't worry I'm not evil. This was just a really good point to end the chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Please review! I want to know what you guys think! Thanks, and stay gold.**

* * *

Sherlock began running through the galleries as soon as he heard the drums.

John started running as soon as he heard the final gunshot. He was the first to arrive back to the restoration room. The place was still dark, but her table was still lit. He could see Soo Lin draped on top of it, dead. A black paper lotus flower rested in her outstretched palm. He looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. When he saw it, his stomach turned into knots. There, collapsed on the floor a few feet away, was Diana.

"No," he breathed as he rushed over.

He turned her over gently. She was still breathing, and he relaxed slightly. There was a wound on her right temple where she had been struck. It was bleeding, but she was just unconscious. Still, John couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, the taller man appearing within seconds.

"What happened?" He asked. "Is she alright?"

"She's knocked out. Soo Lin is – "

"I saw. I called Dimmock, he's sending over officers. We need to get her to the station."

John nodded, gingerly picking up the unconscious girl and carrying her out of the museum.

I woke up in the cab on the way to the station, a searing pain spreading throughout my head.

"Ugh, goddammit." I winced.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"I've been better," I returned, clenching my teeth.

"I'm just glad you're awake." he replied.

"Where are we going?"

"Scotland Yard. Soo Lin is dead." Sherlock told me.

"Shit, you guys. I am so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Diana." John said. "He would've killed her whether we were there or not."

My head was still throbbing when we got to the station. Sherlock helped support me as I stood as John unleashed a tirade against Dimmock. A PA brought me a pack of ice for my head and I thanked her quietly as I put it to the wound.

"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac is out there? A young girl was gunned down tonight and Diana could have been killed! That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him..."

Sherlock raised his free hand to stop him ranting. John's emotional tirade wasn't going to help.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called 'The Black Lotus'. Operating right here in London. Under your nose."

"Can you prove that?" Dimmock asked incredulously.

Sherlock smirked. The tattoo Soo Lin had showed us would be proof enough. He handed me off gently to John before stalking off.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Dimmock said gently.

"Thanks," I said.

John opened his mouth to say something, but I pinched him to stop him. Having him rant next to me definitely wouldn't help my headache.

John helped me down to the mortuary, followed by Dimmock, where we joined Sherlock and a petite red-headed woman with a very characteristic nose.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"Diana, I live downstairs from them."

"Molly Hooper. What happened to your head?"

"Knocked out by a murderer."

"Oh, um," she said, slightly startled by this.

Sherlock cut her off "Molly."

"Oh, sorry," she said, unzipping the body bag.

"We're just interested in the feet."

"The feet?"

"Yes, do you mind if we just take a look at them?"

Molly unzipped the bottom of the body bag. There on Lukis' heel was the Black Lotus tattoo.

"Now Van Coon."

Same thing, Van Coon had the Black Lotus tattoo on his heel. Sherlock turned to Dimmock, a victorious smile gracing his features.

"So?"

"So either these two men happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor. Or I'm telling the truth."

Dimmock sighed. "What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment. And Van Coon's."

"Their books?"

"Yes. Now if you'll excuse us, we have an injured girl we need to get home. "

And with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the mortuary. John sighed and helped me out of the room.

When we arrived back at Baker Street, John helped me down to the couch before collapsing in his chair. Clearly, Soo Lin's death and the fact that the murderer had ample opportunity to kill me too had gotten to him.

"It's not just a criminal organization - it's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders."

"Soo Lin said the name..."

"Yes. 'Shan'. 'General Shan'."

"We're still no closer to finding them..."

"Wrong! We've got almost all there is to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces..."

"Her brother asked her to help him track down something that was stolen." I muttered wearily.

"Why would he go and see his sister? Why would he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum."

"Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities." John said, and then something dawned on him. "Ah. Of course. I see."

"Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics, purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures - hidden after Mau's revolution."

"The Black Lotus is selling them."

Sherlock grabbed John's laptop, this time John didn't protest. I walked over to the pair so I could see what was going on, leaning on John slightly. Sherlock pulled up a website for Chrispan's Auctioneers. There was a large amount of pictures, every valuable antiquity up for auction. Sherlock paused on anything oriental – screens, ceramics, anything.

"Check for the dates." John said.

"Here, John." Sherlock pointed to a picture of two Ming vases. "Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous. The vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's." John mused.

Sherlock pulled up an internet search for Chinese antiquities sold at auction.

"Look, here's another one. Arrived from China a month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand. Diana can you write that down."

"Sher – " John began to protest.

"John, I'm fine." I replied, pulling up a char beside Sherlock and jotting down the information. John looked at Lukis' diary.

"Look. A month before that. Chinese painting. Half a Million." he pointed.

"All of them from an anonymous source." Sherlock stated. "They're stealing them back in China and one by one they're feeding them into Britain."

John took my list and compared them to Lukis' diary and the print out of Van Coon's computer diary.

"Every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China."

"So, if one of those men was greedy, when they were in China – what if one of them stole something ..."

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come."

There was a knock on the door behind us. We turned as saw Mrs. Hudson.

"Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?" She asked.

"What?"

"A young man's outside with a crates of books."

One by one the crates of books filled the flat. When I thought that they had finished, constables brought in more. Some of the boxes were labeled Van Coon and some were labeled Lukis.

"So. The numbers are references."

"To books?"

"To specific pages. And specific words on those pages."

"Right. So... '15' and '1'... That means..."

"You turn to page fifteen and it's the first word that you read."

"OK. So? What's the message?"

"Depends on the book." I interjected.

"That's the cunning of a book code." Sherlock finished. He stared at the burgeoning piles. "It's got to be something they both own."

"OK, fine. Well this shouldn't take too long, should it?"

We each opened up a crate, starting to sift through the books in attempt to find the one we needed. John grabbed a couple of books and walked over to the table, starting to make a list of all the books so he could cross-reference them. Dimmock walked in carrying a stack of papers sealed in an evidence bag with the label 'POLICE EVIDENCE' stuck on top.

"We found these. At the museum. Is this your writing?" He said, holding it up for us.

I glanced at the bag he was holding. It was the pages of scribbled ciphers that we had asked Soo Lin to translate.

"We hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us." John told him.

John took the bundle of evidence and slung it on his desk amidst the jumble. Dimmock hovered for a moment, trying to see what we were doing. I chuckled under my breath and shook my head. Dimmock wanted to be part of the gang now.

"Anything else I can do?" He asked. Nothing. "To assist you, I mean."

"Some silence right now would be marvelous." Sherlock replied, not even looking up.

Dimmock looked upset and slumped out of the room. Not one of the gang. We kept sifting through the books. Every time Sherlock would find two copies of a book, he would plonk it onto the desk where John was working. John, in turn, would fire him a dirty look. It was infuriating. We were getting nowhere. Before we were aware of it, it was morning. Yet another sleepless night. John's alarm on his watch went off. He gave a sigh of frustration, and then grabbed his jacket.

"Off to work," he muttered as he left.

Sherlock continued to flick through books, still unable to find the one that unlocked the code.

"Sherlock?" he heard Diana ask.

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind if I take a quick nap?"

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your bed?" He asked, not looking up.

"Yeah," she said, clearing some of the books off the couch, "But if you needed someone to bounce ideas off of, I figured it'd be easier if I was up here."

"Oh, thanks."

He watched as she curled up on the couch. She was laying on her left side, the slowly fading wound on her right still looking angry. Another surprise from her. Was it being reckless that earned her that wound, or was she doing something recklessly brave?

He shook his head to clear it. He needed to focus.

"A book that everybody would own..." he muttered.

He went and looked at his own bookshelves, taking down all the classic books and examining them one by one to see if they unlock the code. The Bible, The OED, Dan Brown, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver. No result. He glanced at the sleeping form of Diana. He wondered if he should wake her up to ask her opinion. But, he didn't have to worry about that for long, because John entered, looking slightly frazzled.

"I need to get some air." Sherlock said, jumping up from the stacks. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually - I've got a date."

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"That's what I was suggesting."

"No it wasn't." John said. He took a breath. "At least I hope not..."

Sherlock reached for his wallet. "Where you taking her?"

"Cinema."

"Dull. Boring. Predictable. Why don't you try this?" He pulled out the scrap of the poster that he peeled off the wall from the railway arches. "In London for one night only."

"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

John looked at the paper. All it said was CIRCUS and has the box office phone number. He sighed, walking over to Diana, sleeping on the couch. He paused, turning back to Sherlock.

"She slept here?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she just go to her flat?"

"She said she wanted to be up here in case I needed her."

John smiled at him knowingly at Sherlock.

"What?"

"She likes you," John said, still smirking.

"Of course she likes me. You like me." Sherlock retorted.

John shook his head; Sherlock was so oblivious to some things. He leaned over Diana and checked her head. It was definitely looking better, although the fact that she had gotten it in the first place still made his stomach twist.

I felt a gentle nudge on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see Sherlock leaning over me.

"We're going out."

"Huh?"

"The circus. We're going tonight."

"You mean the Chinese one that we saw the poster for when John found the cipher."

"Exactly."

I thought for a moment.

"Pants it is."

"What?" He looked at me confused.

"If you're right about the circus being linked to the Black Lotus, then than means Zhi Zhu will be there. And if he is, then I will definitely kick his ass, because this" I pointed to my right temple, "is not okay."

Sherlock smirked as I went downstairs to my flat to change. I rummaged through my closet, trying to find the most suitable ass-kicking outfit that still looked inconspicuous. I settled on high-waisted black pants and a white button down with sleeves that ended t my elbows. I was lacing up my knee high boots when there was a knock at my door. I opened it and saw Sherlock there.

"Ready?"

"Let's do this."

I grabbed my coat, stuffing my wallet and my cell phone into the pockets, as I followed Sherlock out the door.

We arrived at the box office window just as John was getting the tickets.

"Actually, I have four in that name." the box office manager said, handing him the tickets.

"NO, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got one for me and Diana as well." Sherlock said from behind them.

John turned around and stared at us in disbelief. I didn't blame him. If I had known that we would've crashed John's date I wouldn't have – no, I still would have come just to have the chance to kick Zhi Zhu's ass.

"I'm Sherlock." He said, sticking his hand out for her.

"Sarah," she said, returning the handshake.

"Hi, Sarah, I'm Diana." I said, shaking her hand as well. "Would you accompany me to the bathroom?"

"Sure," she said, smiling briefly at John.

"So," Sarah said as we groomed ourselves in front of the mirror. "Are you Sherlock's girlfriend?"

"No," I laughed lightly. "I don't think Sherlock really does relationships. No, I'm their downstairs neighbor."

"I see. Well, I'm sure you'd be a good couple if he was."

"Right, well John seems to really like you."

"Oh?" A smile came across her face.

"He does. I could tell by the way he got upset when Sherlock and I showed up."

We chuckled as we walked out of the restroom to where the boys were.

"Whilst I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John yelled as we walked up to them.

He turned and saw us, an embarrassed smile coming across his face.

"Heeey. Ready?"

"Yeah," she replied completely unfazed.

There were no seats in the derelict music hall. The sparse audience stood around a ring of candles. In the center there was a tall tripod covered with a black cloth.

"You said circus. This is not a circus," John muttered. "Look at the size of this crowd. This is…odd."

"This is not their day job," Sherlock countered.

"No, sorry. Forgot, they're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers."

A beat from a tiny drum sounded through the hall, stopping Sherlock from replying. A female performer entered, dressed in the makeup and robes of a Chinese opera, with a rouged face and gold head-dress. A drummer began to bang out a monotonous beat on the Dagu drum. I felt Sherlock tense next to me, for some reason that sound was familiar and unpleasant. The woman pulled off the cloth, revealing an evil-looking giant crossbow. At one end was a long metal shaft, ready to fire, and at the other end there was a metal bowl on a chain, dangling from the trigger.

She pulled a lethal-looking crossbow bolt from a container next to the tripod. She displayed it for the audience before putting it in the mechanism. Across from the crossbow, there was a large wooden plank propped up. She plucked a white feather from her head-dress and gently dropped it into the metal bowl.

The mechanism instantly sprang to life, firing the dart straight into the plank.

An assistant removed the dart as a man masked as a warrior entered, dressed all in black. Two assistants walked over and began to bind and chain him, first his arms and then his entire body to the plank.

"Ancient Chinese escapology act." Sherlock whispered to us. "The crossbow is on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

The woman began to load the crossbow again. As the assistants tightened the chains, the warrior groaned in anguish. A cymbal crashed, causing Sarah to jump and clutch John for comfort. The woman then pulled a knife out of the container, showing it to the audience.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out, gradually weight lowers into the bowl." Sherlock explained moments before the woman did so.

The sand began to pour out. Slowly the bag rose to the ceiling, spinning all the while. The warrior in black began to struggle in his bonds. The sandbag was almost empty. The metal weight dropped down, almost touching the bowl. Then, the warrior started loosening some of his bonds. The sand ran out and the weight landed in the bowl, firing the dart. But the warrior had already ducked, being missed by mere inches.

While John and Sarah expressed admiration for the act, I noticed something I should have before. Sherlock had gone. John turned around to say something and noticed it too. When he looked at me for an explanation, I could only shrug. The woman held up a hand, silencing the applause. A new act was about to begin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze river, we present for your pleasure... the deadly Chinese bird spider."

A man came tumbling down from the ceiling, wrapped in red silk. He wore a black mask over his face and when he reached the floor he separated the two sections of silk. He wrapped an arm in each strand, and begain sailing above the heads of the audience. I stepped over to the John's side, shooting him a pointed glance. This was Zhi Zhu.

I fixed my gaze on this man, my eyes narrowing as I studied him. He was short, but muscular. I'm sure I could find a weak spot to incapacitate him. I was so kicking his ass the next chance I got. I was snapped out of my thoughts, when John gently touched my wrist, indicating with a small incline of his head where he wanted me to look. I followed it to the closed curtain of the stage behind the candle circles. There were movements of the curtain that looked like people bumping against it, like there was a fight going on behind it.

"Oh no," I muttered.

Moments later, Sherlock crashed through it, landing hard on the floor. The man dressed as the warrior leapt on him. Without thinking, I rushed to his aide, John at my side. John grabbed the warrior and shoved him away from Sherlock, only to be kicked away in the process. The warrior continued on to get Sherlock, but I stopped him with a kick in the mask. Thank god for all those dance lessons. I saw Zhi Zhu take his mask off and we locked eyes. I snarled and attempted to get to him, but the warrior grabbed my ankle, bringing me crashing to the ground. He had his sword and was standing up to strike, only to be stopped by Sarah beating him senseless with one of the giant darts.

The warrior crashed to the floor. I looked around in despair; Zhi Zhu had escaped without a proper ass kicking. Dammit. Sherlock ripped a shoe from the warrior. There was the unmistakable Black Lotus tattoo. He grabbed my hand and helped me up as we ran out of the theater, followed closely by Sarah and John.

We went straight to Scotland Yard. Sherlock had called on the way there and we were expecting to hear from Dimmock what the police found.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted." He told us.

"Look... I saw the mark at the circus." Sherlock pressed. "That tattoo we saw on the two bodies. The mark of the Tong."

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of their smuggling operation. Now, one of them stole something when they were in China. Something valuable." John furthered.

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

"Get what back?" Dimmock asked.

"We don't know." I replied grudgingly.

"You don't know?" Dimmock sighed. "Mr. Holmes - I've done everything you asked. Lestrade - he seems to think your advice is worth something... I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime."

But there was nothing we could say.

We arrived back home, Sarah still with us.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow." John sighed.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for." Sherlock argued. "We need to find a hideout - a rendezvous." He went back to the symbols. "Somewhere in this message - it must tell us."

The three of us stared at the wall display, Sarah standing awkwardly behind us.

"Well, perhaps I should leave you to it." she said.

Simultaneously, John urged her to stay while Sherlock told her to go. I rolled my eyes. Boys were weird.

John chuckled awkwardly, "He's kidding. Please stay if you like."

"Is it just me? Or is anyone else starving?" She asked.

John rummaged through the kitchen in a panic. I doubted they had any proper food, what with the fact that Sherlock hardly eats and they rarely shopped. Sherlock was clearly irritated by the noise.

"So. This is what you do. You and John." Sarah said. "You solve puzzles. For a living."

"Consulting detective." He responded sharply.

"Ah." she said, looking at me.

I shrugged, giving her a 'what can you do?' smile.

"What are these squiggles?" She asked, leaning over him.

"They're numbers. Written in an ancient Chinese dialect." He was starting to get really irritated now.

"Of course. Yes. Should have known that." she teased gently.

Sarah picked up the pages that were sealed in an evidence bag and studies them.

"So - these numbers. It's a cipher." She said slowly.

"Exactly."

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

I looked over from the wall to her; Sherlock was staring too, finally interested.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Two words are translated here." She pointed.

I joined to two and saw that she was holding the pages we had brought to Soo Lin. Sure enough - the first two number pairs have words written underneath.

"Oh my god, she did translate them." I breathed. I turned to the kitchen. "John, come here." I whipped back to Sherlock. "It was Soo Lin. At the museum, before I got knocked out, I asked her to translate the code for us. I guess you didn't see it cause of…what happened next."

"'Nine Mill...'?" Sherlock read.

"Does that mean 'millions'." John asked, joining us.

"'Nine million quid...'" Sherlock mused. "For what? We need to know the end of the sentence. Diana, did you see the book she used?"

"No, sorry."

Sherlock growled and rushed to the door.

"Where you going?" John asked.

"To the Museum, to the Restoration room - we must have been staring at it." He replied.

"At what?"

"The book, John - the book. The key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst we were running round the galleries, and Diana was getting knocked out, she started to translate the code. That book must be on her desk!"

With that, Sherlock bolted out the door. I stared at John and Sarah awkwardly.

"I'll just, let you two continue your date," I said, walking down the stairs to my flat.

Once there, I pulled off my boots and plopped down on my couch. This was one of the wildest nights ever. No one at home would have believed me if I told them I had fought a Chinese smuggler at a fake circus. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't been there myself. I chuckled, ruffling my hair slightly as I walked over to my work desk. I hadn't done any sketching since I got here, and since my store was opening soon I had to jump on it.

About twenty minutes later, I reached in my pocket for my phone before remembering it was in my coat pocket upstairs. I walked up, hoping I wasn't interrupting anything too much.

"Sorry, guys, I hate to interrupt."

My voice trailed off, and I looked in horror at what was before me. There, spray painted on the windows in that horrid yellow color, was the death cipher. And John and Sarah were nowhere to be found.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews guys! Please keep them coming!**

* * *

I stood there, my breathing shallow, as I tried to comprehend how exactly this could have happened. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs behind me.

"John! John, I've got it." I heard Sherlock yelling. "The cipher. The book. It's the London A to Z, that's what they're using..."

He trailed off when he came into the room, his eyes locking on the yellow paint that had stopped me.

"I forgot my cellphone. I was going to leave a message for my supplier, so I came up here to get it and found this," I gestured shakily to the yellow spray paint on the windows.

"I found the key to the cipher. If they've got John, it'll lead us to them." He went straight to his bookshelf. "We're looking for the Black Tramway."

He pulled out a folding map and popped it open. It took seconds to find it, and Sherlock headed out the door. When I tried to follow, he turned around and held a hand out.

"No, Diane you stay here."

"What? No!"

"Yes, you've nearly been killed by them before." He argued, gingerly brushing the healed wound in my temple.

"But John and Sarah are in danger. _They_ could be killed."

"Exactly. I'm not risking you both. You are staying here." He said, the tone of finality excruciatingly clear in his voice.

He bounded down the stairs, leaving me alone in his flat once again. I stared at the empty staircase in disbelief. He was so bizarre! He was the most infuriating man I had ever met! I could very well follow him; I knew exactly where he was going. And yet, he had acted so strange about my injury. I groaned loudly in frustration. And then, an idea popped in my head. I grabbed my coat and dashed down to the street. I hailed a cab and directed it to Scotland Yard. On the way there, I called the station.

"I need to speak to Detective Inspector Dimmock, it's an emergency," I said hurriedly as soon as I heard the call picked up.

"I'll transfer you," the voice on the other line said.

I fidgeted nervously as I waited.

"Hello?" I heard him asked.

"Peter, it's Diana. The Tong broke into our apartment, left the same cipher that preceded Lukis, Van Coon and Soo Lin Yao's murder and they kidnapped John and his date and I think they're going to kill them."

"How can I help?" He asked worriedly.

"Sherlock found their hideout and he went to get them, but I'm worried there may be more operatives there than we anticipated. I need you to get some officers together and in their cars. I'm gonna be there in five minutes."

"Got it."

I practically threw the money at the cab driver, telling him to keep the change as I scrambled out of the cab. I saw at leave five cop cars waiting, and Dimmock leaning against one. When he saw me jogging towards him, he opened the door for me to dive in.

"Okay, where are we going?"

"The Black Tramway, Holborn." I told him.

He radioed the other cars and we took off.

I couldn't sit still the entire way there. The worst scenarios kept running through my head. They had all been murdered. I just knew it. Dimmock told me we were fifteen minutes away from the tramway just as his cellphone started ringing.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. "Sherlock."

My head whipped towards him.

"Yeah, yeah, we already know. We're fifteen minutes away." He paused, listening to Sherlock on the other end. "We got a tip from Diana. We'll see you in a few."

The cars finally reached street leading down to the old tram tunnel. The flashing blue lights bounced off the walls, giving the area an eerie feeling. An ambulance pulled behind us, which I figured was protocol from maybe-murder cases. A number of police officers jogged into the tunnel to clear the area while others taped off the entrance. I waited by Dimmock anxiously for three specific figures to walk out of the tunnel. And then I saw them, sighing in relief that they seemed relatively unharmed. Sarah had a blanket over her shoulders and John's arm was around her. The pair passed us and headed towards the ambulance, John giving me a small smile. His left temple was cut and bleeding, and I knew all too well who had done it. Sherlock walked up to Dimmock and me.

"We'll just slip off." He told Dimmock. "No need to mention us in the report."

"Mr. Holmes..."

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."

"I go where you point me."

"Exactly." he turned to me, "Let's go home."

I nodded a farewell to Dimmock before turning and walking beside Sherlock.

"You don't know how to listen," he said, his voice slightly scolding.

"You really thought I was going to let you go in there without any kind of back up?" I asked. "Anyways, what happened?"

"They had John and Sarah tied up and were using the crossbow to fire at Sarah if John didn't tell them where the stolen item was. They also thought John was me."

"And…?"

"Zhi Zhu was shot with the dart instead." He said. "I figured you'd be pleased."

"I don't know if pleased is the right word. Avenged might be a little better. Also, if you ever do that to me again, I'm taking your skull and you'll never see it again."

He smirked, "No promises."

The ride back to Baker Street was relatively quiet. John had accompanied Sarah back to her apartment, so Sherlock and I were alone in a cab.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"What, calling Dimmock and coming after you? I think the better question is why I wouldn't. I mean, you said that you didn't want to risk endangering both me and John, but there shouldn't be that kind of decision. I mean, we're all friends, we're supposed to try our damnedest to protect each other."

He was silent.

"You don't have to do things alone anymore." I said.

We were silent for the rest of the ride home. When we arrived, Sherlock walked me down to my door even though I told him it was unnecessary. When we got there, he did something that surprised me. He leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks," he said softly before making his way upstairs.

I stood in my doorway for a couple seconds, processing what just happened. I decided not to look too much into it. He was probably just being grateful. Yes, yes that was it.

The next morning, I was woken up to my text alert going off.

**Join us for morning tea. - SH**

I smiled and shook my head. Last night was definitely a fluke. I walked upstairs to find Sherlock and John in the kitchen, noticing a bandage over the wound on John's head, staring at the decoded message that was laying on the table. 'Nine Mill Fore Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway'.

"Nine Mill..." John read.

"Million." Sherlock corrected.

" 'Million' Yes.. 'Nine million for Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway'."

"An instruction - to all of their London operatives. A message - what they were trying to reclaim."

"A jade pin?"

"Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the tramway - their London hideout."

"But... a hairpin." I stated in disbelief. "Worth nine million pounds!"

"Apparently."

"Why so much?"

"Depends who owned it."

After tea, we headed to Shad Sanderson bank to get the final check from Sebastian. Sherlock was explaining the hairpin situation.

"Two operatives - based in London. They travelled over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. And then one of them helps himself to something. A little hairpin."

"Worth nine million pounds." John said incredulously.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was over in China."

"How do you know it was Van Coon not Lukis?" I asked "Even the killer didn't know that."

"Because of the soap." Sherlock said as he went through the revolving doors.

"Oh, yes of course." I said sarcastically as I followed him, John just as confused behind me.

John and I walked into Sebastian's office as Sherlock changed his path to Van Coon's office, presumably to talk to his secretary. Sebastian stood up when we entered the room.

"John," he said, shaking his hand. "And who is this?"

"Diane Remus, Sherlock's other friend."

"Oh? Just friend?" he replied with a smirk.

"Yes." I replied curtly, knowing exactly where he wanted to steer this conversation. "John and I are here to collect the rest of the finder's fee you promise for finding the hole in your security."

"The break in was done by a person who could climb," John explained.

"They travelled from China under the guise of a circus to track down Van Coon. He got light fingered during his last trip to China." I finished.

"They came in through the window, painted the cipher and fled the same way."

Sebastian finished writing the check, ripping it off as John finished speaking.

"He really climbed up on to balcony?" He asked.

"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over." John replied.

We heard a female's shriek and looked over in its direction. We saw Van Coon's secretary was jumping in panic, shock and excitement. Sherlock had apparently he had the pin and her how much it was worth.

The next morning I was invited to breakfast in the upstairs flat again. The headline on that morning's paper was 'Who Wants To Be A Million-Hair?'. Where did they find these writers?

"Over a thousand years old. And it's sitting on her bedside table every night." I mused.

"He didn't know its value; didn't know why they were chasing him."

"Should have just got her a lucky cat." John joked.

Sherlock smiled, but his expression faded to something more somber.

"You mind, don't you?" John continued.

"What?"

"That she escaped. General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"It must be a vast network, John. Thousands of operatives. You and I - we barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code though, Sherlock." John pressed. "Maybe Dimmock can track them down all of them. Now that he knows it."

"No, it's not that simple." I cut in. "Yeah, Sherlock cracked _that_ code, but all the smugglers have to do is to pick up another book."

"She's right," Sherlock said.

It was a week and a half later before anything interesting happened again. Sherlock was growing ever increasingly agitated by the lack of cases. I had to stop him more than one time from breaking into my flat and storing more 'experiments' to bide his time. John was still seeing Sarah, which I was happy about. She was nice, and if she didn't let getting kidnapped stop her from seeing John again then maybe she was a keeper. I was busy making sure the renovation of my store was going along schedule. For the first time since I moved into Baker Street things were normal.

I was coming back from a meeting with the head of the manufacturing company to see when the newest designs would be ready. I wanted the make their debut the same time my store opened, which couldn't happen if they weren't finished. I walked up to the front door about the same time as John.

"Hey Diana," he waved at me.

"Hey John. Out with Stamford?"

"Yeah, it was kinda nice to have a normal night out." He chuckled.

"Sherlock hasn't returned from…wherever?" I asked.

Sherlock had gotten a case somewhere around Russia – I hadn't been paying much attention – and flew out there to interview the man who contacted him. Since I hadn't seen him since he left, I didn't know if he was back.

"Uh, I don't think so. He wasn't there when I left."

At that moment, we heard gunshots coming from inside. John wrenched the door open and we ran up the stairs. However, instead of seeing any kind of confrontation we were met with the sight of Sherlock sitting lazily in his chair, a gun in his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" John yelled at him.

"Bored." Sherlock muttered.

"What?" he hissed.

"Bored!" Sherlock said louder, standing up.

John and I covered our ears as Sherlock fired two more shots at the wall, proclaiming how bored he was. He handed the presumably empty gun to John, who took it and removed the cartridge.

"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes." Sherlock muttered. "Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming." He replied before flopping despondently onto the couch.

"What about that Russian case?" I asked.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Oh, shame," John sarcastically as he headed into the kitchen. "Tea, Diana?"

"Uh, yeah that'd be great," I called back, sitting in John's chair.

John looked at the mess in the kitchen, flinging his arms out slightly in disbelief of the mess his flatmate had caused since his return.

"Anything in? I'm starving," he called as he strode over to the fridge.

He opened and shut it quickly. After a few moments he opened it again and I could see what caused his distress. There was a severed head sitting on the bottom shelf.

"A severed head," he called out to Sherlock.

"Just tea for me too, thanks," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

"No, there's a head in the fridge," John reentered the living area, quite frazzled.

"Yes," Sherlock responded as if it were the most obvious thing ever.

"A bloody head!" John contined.

"Well where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock asked. "I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death and Diana won't let me use hers."

"Is that something that actually happens?" I asked.

Sherlock just shot me a look in response.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock returned speaking to John, waving lazily in the direction of John's laptop.

"Oh, yes," John replied, sitting in the unoccupied chair across from me.

"A Study in Pink…nice." Sherlock replied, clearly not intending the statement as a compliment.

"Well, there was a lot of fucking pink," I defended. "Pink lady, pink suitcase, pink phone. I mean come on!"

"Did you like it?" John asked him.

"Ummm…no." Sherlock flipped open a news magazine disinterestedly.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered?"

"Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'."

"Now, hang on," John countered. "I didn't mean that in a –"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way," Sherlock cut him off. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who – "

"Or that the Earth goes 'round the sun."

"Oh god, that again. It's not important."

"Not important?" I cut in. "It's basic grade school stuff! How could you not know that?"

"Well if I ever did I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

Sherlock, now thoroughly agitated, sat up and faced us. "Listen, this is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get to the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

In some way, I did understand. I didn't pay attention to celebrities unless they were possible promoters for my line. I stopped paying attention to politics a long time ago. But it wasn't for the fact that I wanted my brain free of useless information. I just didn't care.

"But it's the solar system!" John didn't let it go.

"Oh hell, what does that matter? So we go round the sun! If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

With that, Sherlock flounced back onto the couch, his back turned to us, pouting. John sat there for a moment before sharply standing up. Sherlock turned around as he heard John put his jacket back on.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"Out. I need some air," John replied agitated.

"Oh, sorry love," I heard Mrs. Hudson. She must have bumped into John on his way out. She came in and knocked on the already open door. "You two had a little domestic?"

I laughed under my breath as Sherlock violently got off the couch, stepping on the table as he made his way to the window.

"It's a bit nippy out there," She told us. "He should've wrapped himself up a bit more."

"You might've gone too far," I told him quietly so Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear.

He merely huffed in response. I stood up and headed towards the door.

"I'm going to my flat. Night Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh, goodnight dear."

I had just closed the door and locked it when the entire building shook. The loud roar of an explosion rang in my ears, I could hear the shattering of the windows and the alarms of the cars on the street going off. My only thoughts were if Mrs. Husdon and Sherlock were alright.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Please keep them coming!**

**chaosrachel:**** Thanks! Don't worry, there will be romance, but since it's Sherlock it's going to take him some time to realize he actually has feelings. But don't worry, it'll happen!**

**88dragon06****: You're right; Sherlock does do the same thing with Mrs. H and with Molly in SiB after he embarrasses her. We'll get to hear more about Diana's store later on…things will happen to it. [insert evil laugh]**

* * *

I ran out of my flat, thinking the worst as usual, running into a badly shaken but uninjured Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. I hugged her briefly before running up to see if Sherlock was okay. I saw him standing up as I walked in the flat. Shards of glass rolled off his back and clinked as they hit the floor.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Of course I am," He said, lifting his foot to walk away.

"Stop moving!" I ordered more harshly than I intended. "There's glass everywhere. I'm going to get you shoes. Do. Not. Move."

I walked into Sherlock's room and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes. When I walked out, I saw him lying on the couch.

"Really?" I asked incredulously.

"What? I swept the glass off."

So, I threw the shoes at him.

"Ow," he replied dramatically.

"Aw, too bad." I retorted.

I went to walk downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had a broom and dustpan, but she was already up the stairs with one. She and I got to work clearing the shards from the room. Sherlock remained where he was.

"By all means, Sherlock. Lie there and relax. We'll do all the work," I said sarcastically.

"Thank you," I replied.

I rolled my eyes. He probably wouldn't ever change.

Police arrive not too long after, and stayed until the next day. When I was making my morning tea, I heard movement in my living room. However, when I walked in I didn't see the police officers I had expected. Instead I saw the backs of two men I had no knowledge of. They were positioning a pair of tennis shoes on my floor. I cleared my throat and they turned around sharply.

"You know, when you break into a flat, it's usually a good idea to make sure no one is there."

One of the men pulled out a gun and pointed it at me.

"Won't have that problem for long."

"Yeah, that's not a good idea," I told them.

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

"There are a ton of policemen outside, remember? If you shoot me, they'll hear it and you'll have no chance of escaping. Besides, it's not like I'm going to tell anyone. I'm bizarrely interested in why you're putting a pair of shoes in my flat. I wanna see how this plays out."

I grabbed my purse, checking to make sure they hadn't rummaged around my wallet and taken anything, before heading out the door.

"I'm going grocery shopping, you can let yourself out," I called back at them. "And don't go in my room!"

As I was walking back from the store, my cellphone rang. I had to struggle a bit with my bags to get to it.

"Hello?"

"Diana, are you home?" It was Sherlock.

"No, I'm on my way back from grocery shopping."

"How long have you been gone?"

"I don't know; 45 minutes, maybe an hour. Why?"

"Your flat has been broken into."

"New case?"

"Yes."

"Damn. Why do I always miss the start of them?" I sighed. "What'd they take? Oh, sorry."

I accidentally bumped into a, rather attractive and well-dressed, man. He waved his hand to let me know it was alright.

"They didn't take anything, they left something."

"That makes no sense."

"Just wait for us before you go in," he replied exasperated.

"Whatever," I said before hanging up.

So the shoes were connected to a new case. Interesting. I wondered where it was going to go.

I waited outside the door to my flat, waiting for Sherlock and John to get back. I checked the door handle, testing out a theory. It was locked.

_Well, _I mused, _at least they were courteous enough to lock my door on the way out._

Sherlock and John walked in the building, followed by Lestrade.

"Lestrade, you've come too?" I asked.

"Yeah, if this turns out to be something big I want to be able to get my men on it as fast as I can."

"Good point," I turned to Sherlock. "I checked the door. It's locked."

"It doesn't matter _how_ they got in, just that they did. Now open the door."

"Touchy," I muttered, doing as he said.

I led the guys down to my living room where the shoes were.

"Shoes," John said quietly.

Sherlock made a move towards the shoes.

"He's a bomber, remember." John warned.

"What?" I hissed.

"The explosion last night, not a gas leak. A bomb." he explained.

"Great."

Sherlock lay on the floor, his face close to the shoes. A phone rang, startling us all. Sherlock pulled a familiar pink phone from his coat pocket.

"Is that the pink phone from the – " I whispered to John.

"No, it's just made to look like it." He replied.

"Hello?" Sherlock said to the phone as he put the call on speaker.

"H-hello, s-sexy," a shaky female voice replied.

"Who is this?"

"I've s-sent you…a little puzzle, just to say h-hi," she sounded like she was crying.  
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"I-I'm not c-crying, I'm typing. And this s-stupid…bitch is reading it out."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock whispered softly.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing," he replied.

"No, what did you mean?"

"I've been expecting this for some time."

"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock," the woman's trembling voice returned. "Or I'm going to be…so…naughty."

And then the line went dead. She had hung up.

Sherlock took the shoes to St. Bart's, John and I in tow. Sherlock started analyzing the shoes, inspecting its laces and taking samples of caked on mud from the soles.

"So who do you suppose it was?" John asked as Sherlock was testing the mud.

"Hmm?"

"The woman on the phone, the crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there."

"For god's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads."

"We're not going to be much use to her."

"Are you trying to trace it? Trace the call?" John pressed.

"Bomber's too smart for that. Pass me my phone."

Sherlock's text alert had been going off.

"Where is it?"

"Jacket."

I rolled my eyes. "I'll do it."

I was standing right next to him, anyways. I reached into the breast pocket and pulled out his phone.

"It's a text from your brother," I informed him.

"Delete it."

"Why?"

"Missile plans are out of the country, now. Nothing we can do."

My face scrunched in confusion. Missile plans? John held out an outstretched hand towards me, gesturing slightly to the phone. I handed it over to him so he could read the text.

"Mycroft thinks there is," he said. "He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this, why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting."

"Try to remember there's a woman who might die." John said lowly.

"What for? This hospital's full of people who are dying, doctor. Why don't you go cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

Before John could come up with a decently worded rebuttal, the computer notified us that its search was done.

"Any luck?" Molly asked as she walked in.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said in what I imagined was his excited voice.

"Oh sorry, I didn't – " came a voice from the door.

"Jim!" Molly exclaimed. "Hi, um come in."

My eyebrows wrinkled. It was the same man I bumped into earlier that day as I came home from the grocery store. But something was very different about him. I just couldn't put my finger on it. He had changed, that was for sure. He was far more casual than he was this morning.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced. "And uh…sorry," she trailed off, unable to remember John and my names.

"John Watson, hi."

"Diana Remus," a sickly sweet smile on my face.

It wasn't that I was upset with Molly for forgetting my name. She only had eyes for Sherlock. But this Jim character, there was just something that felt off about him.

"Hi. So you're Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, quite excitedly. "Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly giggled.

"Gay," Sherlock muttered.

Yes! No. No, that wasn't it. My gaydar was the best I'd ever seen and it wasn't going off at all around this guy. But he was dressing the part. That's why it seemed off, of course.

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked.

"Nothing, um, hey," Sherlock corrected.

"Hey," Jim replied, accidentally knocking over a metal dish on the table. "Sorry, sorry." He fumbled for it and set it back on the table. Did he slip something under it? "Well, I better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?"

"Yeah," Molly replied.

"Bye, it was nice to meet you," Jim said, although he directed it at Sherlock.

When there was no response, John answered. "You too."

Jim gave a slight smile in our direction before leaving.

"I have to use the toilet, excuse me." I said, exiting the room hastily.

When I stepped through the door, I looked around to see where Jim had gone. He wasn't too far off.

"Hey Jim," I called just loud enough for him to hear me.

He turned around, surprised to see me walking towards him. I smiled sweetly before grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him into the nearest room. Thank goodness it was empty.

"Okay, spill." I ordered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Please don't play dumb, it's so annoying." I rolled my eyes. "I saw you this morning. You know full well that I did because we ran into each other. But when you show up here, you look totally different. Now, that's not really cause to pull a guy aside for questioning, I'll freely admit that. But you're straight playing gay playing straight, and that confuses me. I don't like being confused. Hence, this interrogation."

Jim grinned, but it was far more sinister than I expected.

"You're far more observant than Sherlock gives you credit for." He said. "And you're not bad looking either."

"That's your pick up line?" I asked incredulously. "One: aren't you dating Molly, or is that a farce too? And two: 'not bad looking'? Really?"

"And feisty too." He chuckled. "Has Sherlock not made a move on you yet?"

"Jim, let's make a deal."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Let's not play silly little games like this or lie to each other. We both know we're far too clever to be fooled by them and, frankly, it's just a waste of time. Deal?"

Jim pondered my proposition for a moment. "Deal."

We shook hands, sealing our agreement.

"Now, answer my questions."

"Diana, you haven't asked any questions." He smirked.

"Fine. What's your deal? Why the faked personality? What happened between now and this morning? Enough questions?"

He continued smirking.

"My deal is: I want to have fun. The faked personality is to help me have fun. And you only saw me this morning because I wanted to see the girl who told my men they did their job wrong."

"Your men? What do you – oh my god. You're behind the shoes in my flat. You're the bomber," I said, realization dawning on me.

"I am. And now you're going to run and tell your pal Sherlock, aren't you?" he replied patronizingly.

"Why would I do that?" I asked.

That seemed to catch him off guard.

"You…wouldn't do that?"

"No, because if I go to tell him, you'll kill me, Sherlock will switch to figuring out who did it and your whole game will cease to exist."

"People may die, Miss Remus. Would you stand in the way of their salvation because of a game?"

"Yes, because he can win. And isn't this is what all this is about? Him catching you?"

He just smirked.

"Oh, he'll catch me." He said as he made his way to the door, casually striding out of it. "But he won't win."

"I wouldn't be so sure." I replied, heading back to the lab where Sherlock and John were. "He doesn't do losing, Jim."

"Neither do I," he called back.

"Hey guys, so what – oh, we're leaving." I said as Sherlock passed me. I walked beside John, following him. "Why are we leaving?"

"The owner of the shoes was Carl Powers." John replied.

"Oh. Who was Carl Powers?"

"No idea."

"So how does Sherlock know?"

"No idea."

"Well what has he told you?"

We were outside St. Bart's. Sherlock hailed a taxi, not paying attention to us.

"Carl came from Sussex to London. He loved the shoes extremely and kept them in mint condition. And he had eczema."

"That's it?" I asked as I got in the cab.

"That's all we need." Sherlock told us.

"How so?"

"Because I knew Carl Powers."

"You did?" John asked.

"1989, young kid, champion swimmer came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament. Drowned in the pool, tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it, and why should you?"

"But you remember?"

"Yes."

"Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself, I read about it in the papers."

"You started young, didn't you?"

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?" I asked.

"His shoes."

"What about them?"

"They weren't there. I made a fuss, tried to get the police interested. But, nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes." He pulled the bag with the shoes onto his lap. "Until now."

Sherlock went right to reviewing newspaper articles about Carl's death the moment we arrived back at Baker Street. John and I were forbidden from entering the kitchen where he was set up. When he finally couldn't stand it anymore, John poked his head through the doors.

"Can we help?" He asked. "We want to help. Five hours left."

John's text alert went off.

"It's your brother," He said, looking at his phone. "He's texting me now. How does he know my nu– "

"Must be a root canal," Sherlock interrupted.

"Look, he did say 'national importance'." John said, slipping into the kitchen.

Sherlock chuckled. "How quaint."

"What is?"

"You are. Queen and country."

"You can't just ignore it."

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."

"Right, good." John said, clearing his throat. "Who's that?"

Sherlock merely smirked.

"Oh no," John said, realizing Sherlock meant him. "Why can't Diana go?"

"Mycroft likes you better," I replied.

John groaned, but went to his room to get changed nevertheless.

I was left with Sherlock, going over the pages he had already looked at. I knew there was nothing I could get from them, but it couldn't hurt to try.

"Could he have been poisoned?" I asked offhandedly.

"That theory was tested. No poison in his system."

"What about the hard to trace poisons?" Sherlock looked up at me. "I assume those exist."

Sherlock looked at me for a few more seconds.

"And if they did, how could _we_ test it?" he asked.

I sighed. "Well, we don't have a blood sample. All we have are the shoes, and they don't have any DNA, do they?"

Sherlock froze.

"Do they?" I repeated.

He didn't respond. Instead, he walked over to the shoes and began what I could only describe as surgery. He began to delicately slice a shoe apart with a scalpel.

"He had eczema," Sherlock explained as he worked.

"Yeah, John told me."

"And what happens when you have eczema?"

"Um, your skin flakes off?"

"And if you wanted to murder someone with eczema, how would you do it without their knowing?"

I paused. There were tons of ways to murder someone. But Sherlock mentioned eczema for a reason. It must be connected.

"Poison the medication!" I exclaimed. "But wait…there would be evidence left. Which is why the murderer took the shoes!"

Sherlock smiled. "Now let's just hope you're right."

Sherlock had taken the remnants of the medicated cream off of the foot pad and was examining it under a microscope. I was waiting for the results as Mrs. Hudson walked in with some refreshments.

"Poison."

"What are you going on about?" She asked, not knowing what was going on.

Sherlock slammed his hands on the counter in excitement, starling Mrs. Hudson into leaving. John returned from his meeting with Mycroft at that moment, confusion clouding his features.

"Clostridium botulinum." Sherlock explained. "it's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet."

John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, and it was plain upon his face.

"Carl Powers," Sherlock stated.

"Oh wait, so you're saying he was murdered." John was finally catching on.

Sherlock got up and walked over to the remnants of the shoe he had strung up.

"Remember the shoelaces?"

"Mmhm," John responded.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles and he drowns." He explained.

"Wha – how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable, and nobody would have been looking for it. I wouldn't have thought to look for something like that if Diana hadn't given me the idea." Sherlock said as he leaned over his laptop.

He typed into his post box on his blog: _FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers. (1978 – 1989)Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St_.

"But there were still traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they went missing." I finished.

"So how do we let the bomber know?" John asked.

"Get his attention," Sherlock answered. "Stop the clock."

"The killer kept the shoes all these years?"

"Yes. Meaning…"

"He's our bomber," John concluded.

And then the phone rang. It was the woman again.

"Well d-done you." She wept, "Come and get me."

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked her.

I should've been happy. We had just saved a woman. But my thoughts were elsewhere. If Carl's murderer was the bomber, and the bomber was Jim, then I had stood toe to toe with a man who had already taken a life. And what's worse was that he probably had been planning this game for a while. I had stared death in the face and struck a deal with it.

_Fuck…what have I done?_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks again for the reviews! If you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know!**

* * *

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you." Lestrade told Sherlock.

We were in Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. Sherlock was staring off distracted. I was still silently freaking out over what I had done. John was the only one paying attention.

"She had to read out from this," Lestrade tapped the small black box on his desk. "A pager."

"And if she deviated from one word the sniper would set her off," Sherlock said.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John offered.

"Oh, elegant," Sherlock said softly.

"Elegant?"

"What was the point?" Lestrade asked. "Why would anyone do this?"

"Someone who's bored. Who wants to have fun," I finally spoke. "For some people, shooting walls isn't enough."

The text alert to the pink phone went off. We turned and looked, now expecting that was going to happen. The four pips sounded.

"Four pips?" John asked.

"First test passed it would seem." Sherlock displayed the screen for Lestrade. "Here's the second."

We all crowded around it, trying to see what was displayed. It was just a picture of a car hood.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade said, grabbing his desk phone.

"Freak," Donovan walked in. I shot her a murderous glare. She looked away, slightly panicked, and held a phone out for Sherlock, "It's for you."

"How do you know the person's bored?" John asked me as Sherlock talked on the phone outside the room.

"Think about it, John. This person is giving us crimes, practically begging to be caught. It's a game. You only play games when you're bored." I paused. "I just don't want to know what happens when he is caught."

John nodded and rose from his seat, going out to Sherlock. I followed.

"So you've stolen another voice, have you?" Sherlock asked into the phone.

He paused, listening to the voice on the end.

"Who are you?" He asked. "What's that noise?"

There was a longer pause, the stolen voice speaking to Sherlock.

"We've got it!" Lestrade called, striding out of his office.

The abandoned car was in a desolated shipping yard. It had already been taped off when we arrived.

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind, city boy, paid in cash. Told his wife he was going on a business trip, but he never arrived."

Standing by the car, I could see that the front seats were covered in blood. But something was weird about it. It didn't fit any patterns of car murders that I had seen on any of the crime shows I had watched. It looked vaguely like someone had just splashed it around. I just couldn't put my finger on it. I heard Donovan talking to John, obviously badmouthing Sherlock. I couldn't waste my time on her anymore. I just wondered if I could get my hands on some botulinum and her hand lotion. NO…no, that's going a bit too far, wasn't it?

"Before you ask, yes it's Monkford's blood." Lestrade informed us. "DNA checks out."

"No body." Sherlock stated.

"Not yet," Donovan snidely corrected.

I wonder if I could get arrested for punching her.

"Get a sample sent to the lab," Sherlock said, turning on his heel and walking over to a woman. "Mrs. Monkford?"

It was the maybe-deceased man's wife.

"Yes," she asked teary eyed. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two police."

"We're not from the police, we're, uh – " John started.

"Sherlock Holmes," he interrupted, his voice now shaky with sadness. He held his hand out for her. "Very old friend of your husband's. We grew up together."

"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh, he must've done. This is…this is horrible, isn't it. I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world."

"I'm sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months." She replied, now getting a bit angry. "Who are you?"

"Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? Bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Oh, well, that was Ian. That was Ian all over."

"No it wasn't!" She was definitely upset now.

"Wasn't it? Interesting," Sherlock's normal tone had returned.

He strode off, back to the waiting taxi, John and I in tow. I was thoroughly amused at what had just transpired. Who knew Sherlock could cry on command.

"Why did you lie to her?" John asked.

"People like telling you things. They love to contradict you." He explained. "Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in, bit prematurely; they've only just found the car."

"You think she murdered her husband?"

"Definitely not. That's not the sort of mistake a murderer would make."

"I see. No I don't, what do I see?"

"Fishing! Try fishing!" Donovan yelled to John.

"Sherlock, there was something weird about the blood spatter," I said to him, ignoring the urge to flip the bird to Donovan.

"I saw."

"It looked like it had just been put there."

"Which is why I'm going to be testing the blood."

I grinned, "I love it when you're brilliant."

"Will you two just get a room?" John muttered.

We ignored him.

"Where now?" John asked, not wanting to be ignored.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock informed him, handing him a business card. "I just found this in the glove compartment."

The place looked innocuous enough, but in this game nothing was as it seemed. We were shown the office of the owner, Mr. Hewitt. I didn't like him: overly tanned, greased back hair, top two buttons of his shirt undone and a giant gold watch around his neck. I felt dirty just sitting near him.

"Can't see how I can help you gentleman, and lady." He finished with a greasy smile.

Would it be inappropriate to vomit?

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday?" John saved.

"Yeah, a lovely car: Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself."

"Is that one?" Sherlock asked as he stood next to the owner, pointing to a picture on the wall behind him.

Hewitt turned, "No, they're all Jags. Yeah, I can see you're not a car man."

"But, uh, surely you could afford one. A Mazda, I mean." Sherlock continued.

"Yeah, that's a fair point. But you know how it is. It's like working at a sweet shop. Once you start picking up the licorice, all sorts, when does it all stop?"

"You didn't know Mr. Monkford." John stated.

"Nah, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him, poor sod."

"Nice holiday, Mr. Hewitt?" Sherlock asked.

"Eh?"

"You've been away, haven't you?"

"Oh, the – the," he began, gesturing at his tanned face. "No, it's, uh, sunbeds I'm afraid. Yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though, bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"What?"

"Well I noticed one on the way in, and I haven't got any change." Sherlock held a bill out to him. "I'm gasping.

"Um," Hewitt pulled out his wallet. "No, sorry."

"Oh well. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Hewitt. You've been very helpful." Sherlock said, walking out the door. "Come on John, Diana."

"I've got change if you still want to –" John offered as we walked out of the dealership.

"Nicotine patches, remember?" Sherlock interrupted. "I'm doing well."

"So what was that all about?"

"I needed to look inside his wallet."  
"Why?"  
"Mr. Hewitt's a liar."

"And he's creepy too, but that's just my own opinion." I added.

"Yeah, I didn't like the way he looked at you," John told me.

"Try being on the receiving end."

Sherlock began testing the sample of Monkford's blood as soon as we got to St. Bart's. John nipped off to get us some snacks while I stayed behind in case Sherlock needed someone to bounce ideas off of. He had dropped a clear liquid into the sample when the pink phone rang.

"Hello?"

"The clue's in the name," I heard the faint voice say on the other end. "Janus cars."

"Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."

"Then talk to me in your own voice."

"Patience."

I heard the line go dead. Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear. Sherlock looked mildly distressed.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't respond. Instead, he looked down at the bubbling blood sample and started to grin.

"Oh, Diana you clever girl."

"Ooh, I love being clever! Why am I clever?"

"The blood _was_ put there. It had been frozen." he said, lifting the petri dish up to eye level.

"I see. So, what does that mean?"

He merely smiled and grabbed his coat, motioning for me to follow. We caught up with John in the hallway, the crisp bags in his hands.

"What did I miss?" he asked, handing me one of the bags as he began to walk beside me.

"I was right, the blood was put there. It came from Monkford, but not by injury. He donated it and they smeared it onto the seats."

"Who's they, and what for?"

"No idea. Sherlock didn't tell me. Oh, and he got a call from the hostage."

"What did he say?"

"Not much. Told Sherlock he was bored and that they were 'meant for each other', and gave him a clue. Something about Janus Cars. I couldn't hear well, it wasn't on speaker."

"What do you think it means?"

"Which part?"

"The part where the bomber thinks he and Sherlock are meant for each other."

I shrugged. "Nothing good, I suppose."

We got a taxi to the Scotland Yard impound lot where they had stored Monkford's car for evidence.

"How much blood would you say was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, who had brought us to the car.

"How much? Uh, about a pint."

"Not about. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" John asked.

Oops, I had left that bit out.

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago, and that's what they spread on the seats. Diana and I noticed the irregular smear pattern."

"Who's they?" John asked, as I hadn't known the answer.

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces."

"Exactly. They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem, money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble, financial I'd guess – he's a banker – couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish; if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he?"

"Columbia."

"Columbia?" Lestrade asked.

"Mr. Hewitt of Janus Cars had a 20,000 in peso notes in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too. Means he's been abroad recently. When I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun bed. That plus his arm."

"His arm?"

"He kept scratching it. Obviously irritated it, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep B, probably , difficult to tell at that distance."

"Conclusion?"

"He'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"Mrs. Monkford?" John asked.

"Oh yes, she's in on it too. Now go and arrest them inspector, that's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

We walked out of the garage, leaving Lestrade to his business.

"I am on fire!" Sherlock exclaimed.

He was enjoying this game. I just couldn't help but wonder if Jim was too. And what he was planning next.

We hadn't gotten another call that night, but I slept on the couch in John and Sherlock's flat just in case we did. I didn't want to miss anything. We went out to breakfast the next morning, not wanting to stay cooped up in the flat at the mercy of the bomber. Not to mention, John and I were starving.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked us.

"We've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started." John answered.

"And crisps don't hold you for very long," I added.

"Has it occurred to you – " John started.

"Probably," Sherlock cut him off.

"Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you?" John finished. "Diana suggested it and I think she's right. I mean, the envelope, the breaking in to Diana's flat, the dead kid's shoes. It's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, smiling slightly.

"Is it him, though?" John asked. "Moriarty?"

I stopped eating suddenly, my fork frozen on its way to my mouth. Why had it never occurred to me that Jim the bomber might be Moriarty?

"Perhaps."

I dropped my fork, the runny egg splattering slightly.

"Diana, are you okay?" John asked worriedly. "You look pale."

I took a steadying breath, "I hope you're wrong and it's not Moriarty. Because that means he can get into my flat, and that really freaks me out."

John rubbed my back sympathetically, and Sherlock pursed his lips. Could he tell I was lying? Moriarty being able to get into my flat was bad, yes. But what was worse was that I had underestimated him when we were standing in the lab. If he was really Moriarty, it was worse than just making a deal with a bomber and a murderer. I had shaken hands and made a deal with the devil himself.

I was so thoroughly fucked.

My internal horror was cut short as a text alert came from the pink phone. Three pips and a picture of a heavily made-up woman.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock said.

"Well, it could be, yeah." John replied, "Lucky for you I've been more than a little unemployed."

"What do you mean?"

"Lucky for you Mrs. Husdon and I watch far too much telly."

John walked over to the hostess station and picked up the remote for a television fixed on a wall. He changed the channel to a makeover show staring the woman in the photograph. As soon John had flicked to the channel, the pink phone rang. Was Moriarty having us watched? Well, at least I'm keeping up my end of the bargain.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered, not putting it on speaker phone where stranger's ears could hear.

John and I exchanged glances. A new hostage. We waited, the person on the other end speaking slower than the others had. John walked over and sat back down as we continued waiting.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock finally asked.

The person on the other end spoke again. When Sherlock hung up, he shook his head slightly in our direction. Definitely not good. We turned back to the television, an announcer coming on introducing the woman as Connie Prince, and that she had died a couple of days ago in the house she shared with her brother.

The body was in Bart's morgue. The three of us travelled there as soon as we could to examine it. She looked so different lying there on the slab, all her make up removed.

"Connie Prince, 54," Lestrade said as he led us into the room. "She had one of those makeover shows on the telly, did you see her?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, circling around the body.

"Very popular. She was going places."

"Not anymore. So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream. Good night, Vienna."

"I suppose," John said, leaning down to check the wound.

"Something's wrong with this picture." Sherlock said.

"Eh?" Lestrade asked.

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong. "

"John, look at the wound on her hand," I said.  
"Yeah, I saw it too." He replied, now standing on the other side of the slab.

"Deep cut with no blood flow. No signs of healing."

"It was made after death," he concluded.

"That seems fishy to me." I replied.

We looked at Sherlock, who had apparently reached the same conclusion as us after examining the body.

"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside of her?" Sherlock asked John.

"Eight, ten days?"

Sherlock smiled.

"So the tetanus was put into her system somehow and the cut was made after her death as a cover up…" I hypothesized. "That makes no sense."

"The question is: how did the tetanus get into her system?" Sherlock asked. He turned to John, "You want to help, right?"

"Well, of course."

"Connie Prince's background, family history and everything. Get me data."

"Right," John said, heading out of the room.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of." Lestrade interjected.

"Is there?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, why is he doing this? The bomber. If this woman's death was suspicious why point it out."

"Good Samaritan?" I offered.

"Who press-gang's suicide bombers?" Lestrade countered.

"Bad Samaritan." Sherlock corrected.

"I'm serious, you two. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you. But out there somewhere some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

"Something new," was all Sherlock gave him as he whisked me out of the room with him.

Sherlock had pinned up all the information John had gotten on Connie Prince. He was pacing in front of it, muttering 'connection' over and over as Lestrade and I looked on. When he stopped, he launched into 'Sherlock-mode'.

"Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. The first hostage was from Cornwall, the second from London and the third from Yorkshire judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world? Showing off?"

The phone rang. Sherlock answered, putting the call on speaker.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" came an old woman's voice. "Joining the dots. Three hours. Boom. Boom."

The line went dead. We continued watching Sherlock pace back and forth. I wonder if John was making any progress at the Prince home. Mrs. Hudson brought us up tea and had joined us in staring at the information board.

Sherlock's phone rang. It wasn't John calling; I could tell by the way he answered the phone.

"Great," Sherlock replied. "Thank you. Thanks again."

"It's a real shame," Mrs. Hudson said as she looked at the pictures. Sherlock had walked off to the fireplace, still talking on the phone. "I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."

"Colors?" Lestrade asked.

"You know, what looks best with what. I should never wear cerise apparently. Drains me."

"Who's that?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock walked back, now off the phone.

"Home office." He stated simply.

"Home office?"

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favor."

"She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much." Mrs. Hudson continued. "They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly isn't it? Did you ever see her show?"

"Not until recently," Sherlock said distractedly, reaching for his laptop.

He went to a website and brought up a video clip of Connie and a male guest on her show.

"That's her brother," Mrs. Hudson explained. "No love lost there, if you can believe the papers."

"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites are indispensable for gossip."

The show clip then displayed a section of the segment where Connie was literally smacking the back of her brother in a 'fun' way to get him to take off a bad shirt. This woman was a bitch, to put it lightly.

Sherlock's phone rang moments later. This time, I could tell it was John, mostly because Sherlock answered the phone with his name.

"John." He waited. "I'll remember."

Sherlock grabbed his coat was made his way to the door.

"Diana, stay here with Lestrade, I'll text you if I need you."

"Kay," I called back.

"Does he do that often?" Lestrade asked after Sherlock left.

"What?"

"Just leave you behind like that."

"Constantly."

"And you just put up with it?"

I turned to him, "What would I do, fight him on it? No, I've learned to pick my battles with Sherlock."

"Are you two…" He trailed off.

"What?"

"I mean…well, I've seen the way he looks at you."

"And how does he look at me?"

"It's different from how he looks at John, or Mrs. Hudson, or me."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't know. But it's different."

"I'll take your word on that," I finished, smiling slightly.

"I'm going to head back. Got a lot of work to do." Lestrade said, walking out the door.

"See you later," I called after him.

"Yeah, yeah."

About thirty minutes later, I got a text from Sherlock.

**Meet at Scotland Yard. Bring package and laptop. –SH**

I was confused. What package? And then the doorbell rang.

"Diana, dear, it's for you." I heard Mrs. Hudson call.

I grabbed my coat and Sherlock's laptop and walked downstairs, figuring I could leave for Scotland Yard after I was done talking to whomever was at the door. When I got there, I saw a tall man in a charcoal suit.

"Diana Remus," he asked in a deep voice.

"Yes."

"Package for Mister Holmes." He said, handing me a light brown organizing satchel stuffed with papers.

"Um, thank you," I said, half as a question.

"Have a nice day." He said, and left silently.

"Mrs. Hudson, I've got to go." I told her, closing the door behind me.

I grabbed a taxi to Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John waiting for me in the front. I wordlessly offered the satchel to Sherlock, who took it with a quick thanks. John shot me a questioning glance.

"I have no idea." I told him.

Sherlock rifled through the papers in the elevator to Lestrade's floor, grinning madly at what he saw.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," he announced as he strode through the door, displaying the satchel. "Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut tut, our bomber's repeating himself."

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.

"Botox injection."

"Botox?"

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the home office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

"You're sure about this."

"I'm sure."

Lestrade paused. "Alright, my office."

"Hey, Sherlock," John stopped him from walking forwards. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you known?"

"Well, this one was quite simple actually. And like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake." Sherlock said, attempting to walk forward again.

"No, but Sherlock," John stopped him once again. "the hostage, the old woman, she's been there all this time!"

"John, if Sherlock solved it too quickly, the game would just move on," I interjected.

"Won't it anyways?" He asked.

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things." Sherlock said, brushing past John and heading towards Lestrade's office. "Don't you see, we're one up on him!"

John made a move to follow him, but I held an arm out to stop him.

"John, come on." I pleaded.

"You knew," he said angrily.

"I didn't, but even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Sherlock was trying to find a way to link all these together. To try and actually identify the bomber."

"All the while some poor old woman has a bomb strapped to her?" He was raising his voice now.

"God, John, you don't even realize how dangerous this could be!" My volume matched his. "You agreed with me that the bomber is playing a game to get a Sherlock. Well what do you think will happen when he catches him, huh?"

John was silent.

"How about you think about protecting your friend instead of some random person you don't even know."

I walked in on Sherlock typing on his laptop as Lestrade looked on.

_Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox._

Right on cue, the pink phone rang.

"Hello," Sherlock said into the phone.

I leaned up next to him, attempting to hear what the hostage was saying.

"Help me," I heard her cry.

"Tell us where you are." Sherlock instructed her. "Address."

"He was so…his voice..."

I stiffened immediately. "Oh no," I whispered.

This was not good.

"No, no, no, no! Tell me nothing about him, nothing." Sherlock commanded sharply.

But the slight buzz on the other end told me the woman hadn't stopped. If she continued to describe the voice, she would be –

"Hello?" Sherlock said into the phone.

The disconnection tone could be heard. Sherlock was frozen, in a kind of shock induced stupor.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, concerned.

"What's happened?" John asked.

The line was dead. But not because anyone had hung up. It was because she had been blown up. I shot a condemning glance at John, who returned with a guilty one.

"The game just got dangerous." I replied flatly.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:**

**88dragon06****: I love your reviews; they're great!**

**Yugioh13: Thanks! I wanted to try to keep the story in tact as much as I could, because the writing is just so brilliant! Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"_The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people…" _The television reporter's voice explained.

John, Sherlock and I were seated, watching the video footage of the decimated flat where the old woman had lived.

"A whole block of flats." John muttered.

"_...by a faulty gas main…"_ the announcer went on.

Gas, the same thing that had supposedly destroyed the flats across from us. I shook my head slightly. Two gas explosions? People would start to ask questions if there were any more.

"He certainly gets about," John continued, referencing our friend the bomber.

"Well, obviously I lost that round," Sherlock admitted.

There was more hurt in his voice than he was willing to let on. It wasn't just his ego that was bruised. He was convinced he could have saved her. Now she was dead.

"Although, technically I did solve the case," he finished as he flipped the television to mute, his normal tone returning.

"He killed her because she started to describe him, didn't she?" I asked.

"Yes. Just once he put himself in the firing line." Sherlock answered.

"What do you mean?" John interjected.

"Well, usually he must stay above it all. He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact."

"What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that? So people come to him, wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock mused.

"It's like what you do, but twisted." I smiled, though there was no real emotion behind it.

I kept thinking back to Jim in the hospital. Now, after seeing what he was fully capable of and not afraid to do, I realized how easy it would have been able to kill me and get away with it. And yet, he let me walk away. He might've just thought I was a stupid girl with a really good gaydar. His target was Sherlock, and I was insignificant until I got in the way of that.

John tapped my shoulder, pointing me to the television. Raoul was being escorted out of the Prince household by police officers. A crime organizer who just gave one up. What was this sick game?

Sherlock stared at the phone. "Taking his time this time."

John cleared his throat. "Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

After telling John we had tried to find a link, he had been pressing me for information. I couldn't give him any because I wasn't privy to the inner workings of Sherlock's mind. Now, he was going directly to the source.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied. "All the living class mates check out spotless, no connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John offered.

"The thought had occurred."

"So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you." he paused, locking eyes with me, "Do you think he wants to be caught?"

"I think he wants to be distracted."

John chuckled humorously, getting gout of his chair. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

"Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives!" John was gripping the back of his chair so hard his knuckles were turning white.

"John, we talked about this last night," I warned.

"Just shut up, Diana." He spat.

"The fuck did you just say?" I said dangerously.

"And you're just as bad as him," he chuckled sourly. "Just so I know, do you two not care about them at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope." John replied, still seething.

"I won't speak for Diana, but I'll continue to not make that mistake."

"I care about few people in this world, and they're all people I know personally. People being set up as pieces in a game to potentially get to my friend? Not if they're bringing him closer to losing, I don't." I answered for myself, acidic meaning lacing every word.

I just hoped John wasn't too angry to miss it.

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?" Sherlock replied.

"No, no." John replied, the humorless laugh still clouding his words.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds. "I've disappointed you."

"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah." He replied bitterly.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

A heavy silence filled the air, broken only when the pink phone beeped.

"Excellent," Sherlock whispered. He picked it up and stared at the picture. "A view of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You two check the papers, I'll look online"

I glared at John, ripping a paper off of the coffee table in front of the couch. I leaned on the windowsill, but John remained where he was, his fingers still dug into the fabric.

"Ah, you're angry with me so you won't help," Sherlock said to John as he pulled out his phone. "Not much cop, this caring lark."

Sherlock began typing rapidly on his phone. John straightened slightly. He looked over at me. I was still angry with him, but I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. He was in too deep now to get out. He relented and sat on the couch. We skimmed the Thames stories in silence.

"Archway suicide..." John read out.

"Ten a penny." Came Sherlock's reply.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington…" I recited.

"Ah, man found of the train line, Andrew West." John related dryly.

"Nothing!" Sherlock muttered, dialing who I could only assume was Lestrade. "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

The taxi drive to the location provided by Lestrade was quiet. Feelings were still hurt and ego was getting in everyone's way of apologizing. We got there around noon time, the police and coroners already there and looking over the body.

"Do you reckon this is connected then, the bomber?" Lestrade called out to us as we joined.

"Must be." Sherlock replied, "Odd though, he hasn't been in touch."

"Then we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Any ideas?"

Sherlock paused, studying the body. "Seven, so far."

"Seven?"

Sherlock took out a small magnifying glass from his pocket, studying up close everything he could about the man. He checked the shirt, and even took a sock off of the man's foot. I wrinkled my nose slightly as he held the magnifying glass up to the foot. I wasn't a big fan of feet. When he stood up again, Sherlock looked to John and indicated to the body slightly.

John knelt down after getting permission from Lestrade. He felt the temperature of the body as Sherlock began typing on his phone. I looked over the body as I stood by Lestrade. There were what looked to be bruises or red marks on the man's face. I glanced down at his hands, but there were no defensive wounds.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours," John finally replied. "Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs." Lestrade replied. "Asphyxiated."

"Ah yes, I'd agree," John said, moving to the face.

"Was he in a fight?" I asked, leaning over and pointing to the marks on the face. "There's a lot of bruising on his face."

"Around the eyes and mouth." John agreed. "More bruises here and here."

"Fingertips." Sherlock said quietly.

"He's late thirties, I'd say." John continued. "And not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while, the water's destroyed most of the data." Sherlock stated. "But I'll tell you one thing; that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?" Lestrade asked

"How the hell do you make that kind of leap?" I asked.

"We need to identify the corpse," Sherlock went on. "Find out about his friends and…"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. What painting? What are you on about?" Lestrade pushed.

"It's all over the place, haven't you seen the posters?" He asked. "Dutch Old Master, supposed to be destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up, worth £30 million."

"Okay, so what has that got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything." Sherlock said, excitement shining in his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?"

"I've heard of a Gollum, but not a Golem." I responded.

"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John asked. "What are you saying?"

"Jewish folk story, a gigantic man made of clay." Sherlock explained. "It's also the name of an assassin. Real name - Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world." He pointed to the face of the dead man. "That is his trademark style."

"So this is a hit?" Lestrade asked.

"Definitely." Sherlock confirmed. "The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this got to do with that painting? I don't see…"

"You do see, you just don't observe!" Sherlock exclaimed, half scolding, half whining.

"Yes, alright, alright, girls! Calm down." John interjected.

"Sherlock, you want to take us through it?" I asked.

John and I shared a look, silently apologizing to each other. We had now been thrust into the temporary roles of peace keepers, and we couldn't be fighting if we needed to break up a catfight between Sherlock and Lestrade.

"What do we know about his corpse?" Sherlock said, jumping into his explanation routine. "The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. But the trousers are heavy duty. Polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him. So some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt…for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade thought aloud.

"Security guard?" John offered.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?" Lestrade was confused.

"Flabby. You'd think he led a sedentary life. Yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. The watch helps too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died"

"No, no, no. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago, his routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted; otherwise, he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man works somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution." He rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a lumpy ball of white material. "Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognizably…?"

"Tickets?" I asked.

"Ticket stubs." He corrected. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing, Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid £30 million. The picture's a fake."

There was a moment of silence as we all took in his words.

"Fantastic," John stated.

"Fascinating," I added.

"Meretricious." Sherlock replied.

"And a Happy New Year." Lestrade finished.

John looked back at the body. "Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade stated.

"Pointless, you'll never find him, but I know a man who can." Sherlock corrected.

"Who?"

"Me."

Without another word, he took off towards the road.

"Why hasn't he phoned?" Sherlock asked as we rode in a taxi to the gallery. "He's broken his pattern. Why?" He leaned forward towards the cabbie. "Waterloo Bridge."

"Not the gallery?" John asked.

"In a bit." He replied, digging around his pockets.

"Isn't the Hickman full of contemporary art?" I asked as Sherlock scribbled in his notebook. "Why do they have an old master?"

"Don't know. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data…" He trailed off, ripping the page out and rolling it in a fifty pound note.

I looked at John, but he had no idea what it was about either.

"Stop! Can you wait here?" Sherlock ordered a few minutes later. "I won't be a moment."

He got out of the cab and hopped over an iron railing.

"Sherlock," John started, jumping over the railing to catch his friend.

I stayed behind, leaning against the damp car and regretting it slightly. The coat I was wearing didn't do well with dampness, but I wasn't about to leap over a fence. I could faintly hear Sherlock telling a woman who had been asking for change that he was giving her the fifty pounds. But that had a note wrapped in it. Why would he be giving it to her? I watched as Sherlock and John returned to the car. Sherlock jumped the rail and landed beside me.

"Got to go to the gallery. Have you got any cash?" He asked.

I rolled my eyes. He was strange, but so very interesting.

When the cab arrived at the gallery, Sherlock allowed me to get out but stopped John.

"No, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address."

"Okay?" John replied.

Sherlock and I headed towards the back doors of the gallery.

"Why do you do that?" I asked as I heard the cab pull away behind us.

"Do what?"

"Send John out for information finding things instead of me. In fact, since this whole thing started the only time you've let me out of your sight was when I was with Lestrade or on my way to Scotland Yard."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "The bomber broke into your flat. Not mine."

"So?"

"So I can't help but think it was a warning. That he's planning on using you as a hostage some time in this game."

"So, what you're saying is, you're trying to protect me?"

"Yes."

I stopped Sherlock with a slight touch on his arm before standing on my toes to give him a soft kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks," I said quietly, repeating what he had done when I brought the cops to the tramway.

Ms. Wenceslas walked into the section of the gallery that held her prize, the recovered Vermeer painting. However, she noticed a security guard standing in front of it instead of patrolling like he was supposed to.

"Don't you have something to do?" She asked him.

"Just admiring the view," he replied.

"Yes, lovely. Now get back to work, we open tonight."

"Doesn't it bother you?" He asked, turning and walking towards her.

"What?"

"That the painting's a fake."

"What?" She repeated darkly.

"It's a fake. It has to be, it's the only possible explanation." He explained. "You are in charge, aren't you Ms. Wenceslas?"

"Who are you?" She demanded.

"Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake so somebody sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?"

"Golem? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Are you working for someone else or did you fake it for them?"

"It's not a fake."

"It is a fake. Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."

"What the hell are you on about? You know, I could have you sacked on the spot."

"Not a problem," he retorted.

"No?"

"No, I don't work here, you see. Just popped in here to give you a bit of friendly advice."

"How did you get in?"

"Please."

"I want to know."

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight." He said removing his hat.

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He replied, sticking the hat on a metal pole that connected a red rope to others.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"You should be," he removed his jacket. "Have a nice day."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Ms. Wenceslas to worry.

"Did you have fun playing dress up?" I asked Sherlock as he exited the Vermeer section.

"Oodles," he replied, taking his jacket back from me.

"So, what'd she say?"

"She said it wasn't a fake. But she's lying. I can tell."

It was evening when we got back to Baker Street. Sherlock kept looking around for someone, and when he didn't see them he allowed me to guide him up to his flat. He kept jumping up from the chair or couch to run to the window, only to slink back to his former position when he didn't see whomever he was waiting for. When he did see them, he flung my coat at me and dragged me down the stairs.

It was a woman who looked to be homeless. She was asking for change from the people passing her.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art," John said, leaping out of the cab that had just pulled up beside us.

"And?" Sherlock pressed.

"And…"

"And is that it? No habits, hobbies – "

"No, now give us a chance. He was an amateur astronomer." John explained, though it was not the answer Sherlock had been looking for.

"Hold that cab," he ordered as he walked towards the woman.

"Spare change, sir?" she asked him.

"Don't mind if I do."

She passed him a slip of paper. He smiled slightly as he read it.

"Fortunately, I haven't been idle," Sherlock said, walking over to the cab. "Come on."

We rode silently, arriving at Vauxhall Arches. It was a notorious place for homeless camps.

"Beautiful isn't it," Sherlock mused, looking up at the stars visible through the openings between buildings.

"Thought you didn't care about that." John smiled.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

"Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answer phone in his flat. A Professor Cairns."

"This way," Sherlock directed.

"Nice," John replied sarcastically. "Nice part of town."

"And one I hoped to never visit," I added bitterly.

"Any time you want to explain…" John said to Sherlock.

"Homeless network. Really is indispensable." He replied.

"Homeless network?" John took out a flashlight, flipping it on.

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Ah, that is clever. So you scratch their backs and – "

"Yes, disinfect myself."

Sherlock pulled out a flashlight as well. I scrunched my nose. Why didn't I get a flashlight?

"Left coat pocket," Sherlock said softly.

I reached in, feeling cold metal. "That's not a flashlight." I hissed.

"No, but you might need it."

We crept through a dark alley. I didn't know exactly who we were looking for, but apparently we weren't finding them. Up ahead, a figure which reminded me unpleasantly of Nosferatu began creeping out into the light.

"Sherlock, come on" he whispered as he pulled me against a wall to hide. "What's he doing sleeping rough?"

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag. Much," Sherlock responded.

"Oh, shit," John said, feeling around his pockets.

"What?"

"Well, I wish I'd brought my – "

"Don't mention it," Sherlock returned, passing the handgun to John. He gave a slight nod at me as he did so, and I pulled out my gun as a precaution.

If John needed his, it's a good thing Sherlock gave me mine. Sherlock looked back into the ally, gave a start and took off running. The Golem was escaping. John and I were in hot pursuit, Sherlock leading us by mere inches. But we were too late; the Golem had a car waiting and had jumped in. It sped away as soon as we reached it.

"No no no no!" Sherlock wailed. "It'll take us weeks to find him again!"

"Or, not," John offered. "I have an idea where he might be going."

"What?"

"I told you, someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on."

We arrived just in time to see the Golem smothering Professor Cairns.

"Golem!" Sherlock yelled, John and I behind him with our guns pointed at the murderer.

The man let the body drop, causing the planet film that was our only light to flicker and skip like a giant strobe light.

"I can't see," John whispered. "I'll go round, I'll go round."

John left the stage, leaving me and Sherlock to look around in attempts to find the Golem.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock called into the flickering light.

I was shoved fiercely aside, the Golem getting me out of the way so he could get rid of Sherlock first. As I fell to the floor, my gun spun out of my hand.

"John!" I yelled as I looked around for it.

My hand closed on it as John bounded up, cocking his gun and pointing it in the Golem's face.

"Let him go, or I will kill you," John said dangerously.

The Golem responded by throwing Sherlock down and kicking the gun out of John's hands, grabbing him instead and kneeing him hard in the chest. I reared up, shoot him in the shoulder. However, I hadn't anticipated how long his arms were. It took only two quick steps and a swing forward with his good arm to knock me off my feet. My head slammed into the floor and I fell back, dazed. I felt the cheek he had hit. Was he wearing a ring? Something had broken the skin.

Sherlock jumped up and held his fists up, preparing to take on the Golem, but even with a bullet in his shoulder, the Golem was too much for one man to handle. He struck Sherlock down and pressed his hands over Sherlock's mouth, but John was there. He jumped on the Golem's back, attempting to choke-hold him into unconsciousness. But the Golem was too much for him. He threw John off his back and into John, taking off. I grabbed my gun quickly, firing in the direction as well as I could with the projector light blinding me. I heard shots coming from next to me. Sherlock had been firing from John's gun.

But it was no use. The Golem had gotten away.

"It's a fake, it has to bed." Sherlock muttered as the three of us, accompanied by Lestrade and Ms. Wenceslas, stood by the recovered painting.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Ms. Wenceslas protested yet again.

"It's a very good fake, then." Sherlock turned to her quickly. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

Ms. Wenceslas bristled slightly, turning to Lestrade. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

But the ringing pink phone let us know we were right.

"The painting is a fake," Sherlock said into the phone. "It's a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

The other end was silent.

"Oh, come on. Proving it is just a detail." Sherlock continued. "The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out." Nothing. "It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed." Still the phone was silent. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

"Ten," came the tiny voice.

"It's a kid," Lestrade said, looking appalled. "Oh god, it's a kid."

"What did he say?" John asked.

"He's counting down from ten, giving him time," I replied quickly.

"Jesus." John wailed.

"Nine."

"This kid will die." Sherlock snarled at Ms. Wenceslas.

"Eight."

"Tell me why the painting's a fake. Tell me!"

"Seven."

"No, shut up." he held a hand out to her. "Don't say anything. Only works if I figure it out."

Sherlock leaned close to the painting, muttering to himself.

"Six."

"Woodbridge knew, but how!"

"Five."

"He's speeding up!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Sherlock," John pleaded.

"Four."

"Oh! In the planetarium, you two heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant, that is gorgeous."

Sherlock leapt away, shoving the pink phone at John while he pulled out his own, typing rapidly.

"Three."

"What's brilliant, what is?" John called after him.

"This is beautiful. Love this," Sherlock giggled.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled.

"Two."

"The Van Buren Supernova," Sherlock yelled into the pink phone.

"Please," the little voice pleaded. "Is somebody there? Somebody help me."

"There you go," Sherlock passed the phone to Lestrade. "Find out where he is and pick him up." Sherlock looked back at the painting, pointing out the mistake that had been made. "The Van Buren Supernova, so called. Exploding star only appeared in the sky in 1858."

"So, how could it have been painted in the 1640s?" John laughed wearily as he looked at the painting.

Sherlock began to walk away, but noticed I was still frozen to the spot.

"Diana?" Sherlock said, worry spreading over his face when he caught sight of me.

I felt something slip down my cheek, and I realized I had been crying.

"A child, Sherlock," I whispered. "Adults strapped to bombs, I don't – but a kid…" I trailed off, my breath catching in my throat.

He wiped away the stray tears before encasing me in a hug.

"You lost a child, and now you feel the need to take care of all the others. It's okay. Just means you're a good mum." He said softly, holding me tight as I began to cry.

All the stress I had been feeling bubbled over and I clutched Sherlock as it came out. John looked on in sad amazement. He had never seen me cry over this, but what's more is he had never seen Sherlock show any kind of affection to anyone but Mrs. Hudson.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Dun dun DUUUUUN...Moriarty time!**

**alleyalice: Wow, thank you so much! I'm truly glad you're enjoying reading this.**

**Yugioh13: Yeah, it was a sad ending, but I felt I had to put that in to remind people Diana isn't a female Sherlock. She cares mores about certain things and it starts to make him realize caring is okay.  
**

**88dragon06: I figured putting a gun in her pocket instead of a flashlight would definitely be something Sherlock would do. I'm glad you like it!  
**

* * *

Sherlock and I sat in Lestrade's office, my eyes puffy and red from crying. John had taken off to work on the Adam West case again. Ms. Wenceslas was seated in front of us, facing Lestrade as well.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock spoke. "Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend and you, Ms. Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

She was silent.

"What are we looking at, Inspector?" He continued.

"Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least of the murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats – "

"I didn't know anything about that," Ms. Wenceslas pleaded. "All those things, please believe me."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, who nodded in return. He could tell she was being truthful.

"I just wanted my share," she continued. "The thirty million." She looked back at Sherlock, and then looked down to begin her story. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius, I mean really. Brushwork…immaculate. Could fool anyone."

Sherlock made a noise of disagreement.

"Well, nearly anyone." She went on. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock asked swiftly.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Lestrade laughed in disbelief.

"It's true!" She protested. "It took a long time, but eventually I was...put in touch with people. His people..." Sherlock began to slowly straighten up at her words. "Well, there was never any real contact. Just messages...whispers."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock pressed.

"Moriarty."

And that's when the bottom fell out of my stomach. John hadn't been wrong at the diner. This man wasn't just a bomber. He was the man who orchestrated the taxi driver's murderous rampage. I had stood toe to toe with Moriarty.

_I think I'm going to vomit._

"Where are we going?" I asked Sherlock as we rode in a taxi.

"John's about done with the Andrew West case." He replied. "We're going to go help him wrap it up."

"Got it."

I decided as we walked out of Scotland Yard, having my fears concerning Jim the bomber's real identity as Moriarty confirmed, that I couldn't keep being scared like I was. We were eventually going to meet up with him, I was sure of it now, and I couldn't cower when I saw him regardless of how much I wanted to. He would be able to see it right away and would use it. NO matter what this man would do I'd have to be able to help fight it. I just hoped I'd be able to.

"Diana," Sherlock said gently.

"Huh?" I was still sitting in the stopped taxi. "Oh, sorry."

We walked to where John was; he was kneeling and muttering. "Right, so, Andrew West...got on

the train somewhere. Or did he? There was no ticket on the body. How did he end up here?"

As we got closer, the train changed lines, a loud clank coming from the metal scraping each other. A look of realization crossed John's features.

"Point." Sherlock said as we stood behind him.

"Yes!" John spun around, stepping back slightly in surprise.

"I knew you'd get there eventually." Sherlock continued. "West wasn't killed here, that's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" John asked.

"Since the start. Well, half true, whenever Diana was with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. Either way, you don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you? Come on, we've got a bit of burglary to do."

We followed him to the waiting cab. It took us to a nice suburban area, with brick walls and trees all over the place.

"Missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it." Sherlock explained as we walked towards a particular building. "Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"Yeah, I know, I've met them." John quipped.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here." Sherlock said, walking through an opening in a brick wall.

"Where?" I asked.

Wordlessly, he strode up the stairs to Flat 21A. Sherlock pressed the call button. No response.

"Sherlock! What if there's someone in?" John whispered.

"There isn't." Sherlock said as he casually picked the lock, opened the door and walked in.

"Jesus..." John muttered, rolling his eyes.

We followed him in anyways.

"Where are we?" I asked again.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock replied as if it were the most obvious thing.

"Joe...?"

Sherlock said nothing, instead going over to a curtain and pulling it open.

"Brother of West's fiancee. He stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law." He finally replied, kneeling down and examining the windowsill with his magnifying glass.

John and I walked over, seeing the tell-tale brownish red of dried blood on the white windowsill.

"Then why did he do it?" John asked.

But we were cut short by the sound of keys rattling in the lock.

"Shit," I hissed.

"Let's ask him." Sherlock replied.

John pulled out his gun and walked over to be closer to the door. I followed suite, happy that I still had my gun after the Golem ordeal. The man, Joe, walked in with a bike wearing athletic gear. When he saw us he picked up his bike to use as a weapon, only stopping when he stared down the barrels of two guns.

"Don't! Don't." John warned him.

We sat Joe on the couch, standing guard at a comfortable distance in case he tried to run away or do something stupid.

"He wasn't meant to... What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus." Joe moaned.

"Why did you kill him?" John asked.

"It was an accident." Joe answered.

I rolled my eyes.

"I swear it was." Joe protested.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" I countered.

Joe sighed, "I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know how it started. I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually, he's so careful. But that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans. 'Beyond top secret.' He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and whatnot. But there it was. And I thought...well, I thought it could be worth a fortune.

It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

"What happened?" John asked.

"We got into a scuffle, he fell down the stairs. Hit his head hard on the ground when he landed. I was going to call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do. So I dragged him in 'ere. I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head." Sherlock added, looking out the window. "You put his body on the top of the train stopped behind your flat for a fuel up. Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't hit a stretch of track that curves."

"And points." John furthered

"Exactly." Sherlock finished.

"Do you still have it, then - the memory stick?" I asked.

Joe nodded.

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind." Sherlock commanded.

Joe got up to get the stick, and Sherlock walked over to John and me.

"Distraction over - the game continues." He whispered to us.

"Maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber." John suggested.

"He wouldn't just stop, John." I told him.

"Five pips, remember, John." Sherlock reminded him. "It's a countdown. We've only had four."

"No, no, no! Course he's not the boy's father. Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" Sherlock shouted at the television.

Sherlock had dropped John and me off at Baker Street, apparently still worried Moriarty would try to use me. Once he returned from whatever errand he had to run, we had sequestered ourselves in Baker Street, waiting for the final pip to come. We had been there for god knows how long.

"I knew it was dangerous." John muttered, typing on his laptop.

"Hm?"

"Getting you into crap telly."

"Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked.

"Yep. He was over the moon." Sherlock answered. "Threatened me with a knighthood...again."

"You know, I'm still waiting."

"Hm?"

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"It didn't do you any good, did it?"

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"Oh my god, girls, let it go," I interjected, laughing slightly

They smiled, Sherlock nudging me with his foot slightly. I swatted at him. He was still wearing shoes and getting dirt on my pants.

"I won't be in for tea." John informed us, standing up and walking towards the door. '"I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge. Milk, we need milk."

"I'll get some." Sherlock offered.

"Really?"

"Really."

"And some beans, then?" John tested.

"Mm."

John glanced at me, and I could only shrug in response. He nodded slightly and walked down the stairs. As soon as we heard the door close, Sherlock turned to me.

"Don't you think you'd have a better night's rest in your flat? I'll text you if anything happens."

I studied him for a moment.

"There's something you're hiding from us."

"No," he said, far too innocently I might add.

"You didn't return the missile plans, did you?"

Sherlock said nothing, merely pulling out the laptop he had hidden between him and the chair. I snuck up behind him as he typed.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight._

"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."

"Fine then, I won't tell you." He replied, walking towards the door.

"You're not going alone."  
"Yes, I am." He curtly replied.

"Uh, no you're not!" I stepped in front of him, stopping him in his path. "The last time you left me behind, Sarah nearly died."

"What, and you think you could stop people from dying if it happens this time?"

"I don't need to save all of them, just the important one." I countered, not taking my eyes off him.

He stared at me, his eyebrows knitting as he took in my words.

"Take John's gun. We might need two." I instructed.

The pool was quiet except for the lapping of the water on the sides. The reflection of the light danced on the walls. It could have been called serene were it not for the fact that there was a murderer lurking in the shadows.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." Sherlock said, holding the memory stick in the air. "That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."

And then John stepped out of a changing booth. I was taken aback. What the hell was he doing here?

"Evening." John said, nervousness undercutting the calm tone of his voice.

And then I noticed, he was blinking the Morse code pattern for SOS. This was a trap Sherlock had inadvertently created for himself. We had walked straight into it. And John was the hostage now.

"SOS," I whispered, hoping Sherlock would understand.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John asked.

"John! What the hell...?" Sherlock questioned him, not understanding my meaning.

"Bet you never saw this coming." John opened the parka he was wearing, revealing the bomb strapped to his chest. "What...would you like me to make him say...next?" A red dot appeared on his chest as he spoke. "Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear."

"Stop it." Sherlock ordered as he walked towards John, with me following close behind.

"Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl dies." John spoke the bomber's words. "I stopped him.

I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock questioned.

From across the pool, a door squeaked open.

"I gave you my number," came a disembodied voice. "I thought you might call."

Out walked Jim the bomber, Moriarty. Whatever you wanted to call him. He was dressed the same way he was when I ran into him the first day of the game.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" He asked.

"Both." Sherlock replied, pulling out John's gun.

I did the same, both of us aiming at Moriarty.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi." He replied, unfazed. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point. Only Diana was able to see through my disguise. Little Diana with her sparkly gun."

"It shoots just well as any other," I retorted.

Jim grinned, "There's that fire I love." When we didn't lower our weapons, he continued. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

"Dear Jim," Sherlock started. "Please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant.

"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me. And no-one ever will."

"I did." Sherlock said as he cocked his gun.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, OK, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now." Moriarty finished in singsong. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning... my dear. Back off. Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear? Couldn't fool little Diana though. She found out I was the bomber and didn't tell you. Of course, how could she have known unimportant bomber Jim was really big bad Moriarty? Wouldn't have made much difference though."

"Oh?" I countered. "I would've snapped your neck right then and there had I known."

I was seething, every bit of fear for this man was gone. He was threatening not only one but two of my friends. I wondered how much damage I could do with just my hands and teeth before the snipers took me down.

"Would you have? Little pretty Diana. Feisty Diana that flirted in the lab."

"I'll admit, you're good-looking. But looks aren't bullet proof," I said, cocking my gun in response.

"You were just too sure that Sherlock would win this. 'He doesn't do losing' you said."

"Haven't lost yet," I countered. "Your little game is still going on."

"And it's such a fun little game." Moriarty replied gleefully.

"People have died." Sherlock said lowly.

"That's what people do!" Moriarty finished the last word as a yell, the echo bouncing off the walls sinisterly.

"I will stop you." Sherlock warned.

"No, you won't."

"Are you all right?" Sherlock directed his question to John.

When he didn't respond, Moriarty leaned over to his ear. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

John nodded, and Sherlock held out the memory stick.

"Take it." he told Moriarty.

"Mm? Oh...that? The missile plans." Jim took the memory stick, kissing it lightly. "Boring! I could have got them anywhere."

As he tossed it into the pool, John bounded up and grabbed Moriarty from behind.

"Sherlock, run!" he yelled.

However, we remained at the pool, determined to help John in any way we could.

"Good!" Moriarty laughed. "Very good."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." John informed him lowly.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

Something happened. Something we couldn't see, but it was enough to make John's face go pale. And then I realized that Moriarty had brought more than one sniper, and they had aimed at Sherlock and me.

"Gotcha." Moriarty sang as John let go of him. He brushed off his suit before gesturing to it. "Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock countered.

"But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I'd better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Cos I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit...disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." Jim said as he walked out.

"Catch you...later."

"No, you won't!" He sang, closing the door behind him.

We stood frozen for a few moments. Then, Sherlock handed me his gun and began to take the bomb off John.

"All right?" He asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." Sherlock was frantically taking the bomb-rigged jacket off John's shoulders. "Sherlock...Sherlock!"

Sherlock slid the jacket as far away from us as possible. I hugged John as soon as he was free from the contraption, as Sherlock grabbed the gun back from me and ran to see where Moriarty had gone.

"Oh, Christ." John said as he pulled away, sliding down one of the changing room divider poles, his legs giving out as the adrenaline vanished. I knelt beside him, not daring to leave him just in case.

Sherlock reentered, looking worried.

"Are you okay?" John asked him.

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine."

"Sherlock, I am so sorry." I apologized. "I had no idea."

"No, you couldn't have," Sherlock told me gently. "It's not your fault." He turned to John. "That, er...thing that you...that you did, that, um...you offered to do... that was, um...good."

"I'm glad no-one saw that." John admitted.

"Mm?" Sherlock muttered.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

"They do little else."

"Seriously John," I interjected. "You had a bomb jacket forced on you and you're worried about people seeing Sherlock take it off? Priorities."

We began to laugh lightly until the red sniper dots reappeared in multitudes all over our bodies.

"Sorry, boys and my little Diana. I'm so changeable!" Moriarty exclaimed as he reentered. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked down to us as we nodded slightly, silently agreeing with whatever plan he came up with.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock said, turning around and pointing it at Moriarty, before lowering it to the bomb jacket on the floor in between us.

We were frozen there, the tension mounting to insufferable amounts. The hands that I had placed on John's shoulder and knee were now clenching with anxiety and he would be recoiling in pain were it not for the fact that he was suffering the same emotions. I didn't think I could take anymore until I heard the Bee Gees' _Staying Alive_ started to play from Moriarty's pocket. He rolled his eyes, as if phone calls always ruined a perfectly good homicide.

"Do you mind if I get that?" He asked.

"Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock replied.

"Hello?" He asked as he picked up the call. "Yes of course it is. What do you want?"

He mouthed 'sorry' to Sherlock, who returned with a mouthed 'oh, it's fine'.

"Say that again!" Moriarty erupted suddenly, quieting his tone as he continued. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you." He paused, "Wait."

Moriarty lowered his phone, looking conflicted. He walked forward slowly, stopping mere inches from the jacket.

"Sorry." He said. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock countered.

Moriarty grinned slightly. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He returned to his phone call, making his way towards the door. "So if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

As he walked out the door, he snapped his fingers, causing the snipers to disappear.

"What happened there?" John asked after a few moments of silence.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock replied. "Question is: who?"

We were all completely drained as we returned to Baker Street. I'm pretty sure all John wanted to do was go back to sleep after his ordeal. I returned to my flat, wanting nothing more than to sleep in my own bed. However, I had just flung my jacket on the chair when I heard a knock on my door.

_Great. What else will happen tonight?_

I opened my door to see Sherlock standing there. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead closed it and brushed past me to walk into my flat. His expression was a mix of confusion and apprehension carefully concealed by a cracking mask of composure.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" I asked, shutting the door behind me.

"Why did you do it?" He asked. "Why did you come with me if you knew who the bomber was already?"

"For the same reason John put Moriarty in that stranglehold." I replied. "We care about you, Sherlock. We just want to see you safe."

"You told him I don't do losing."

"You didn't lose."

"Yes, but I didn't win, either."

"True, but you're safe," I countered. "And that's all I wanted to happen."

"Would you have? Protected me, that is?"

"I would watch the world burn if it meant you'd be safe."

"Why?"

"Because you're the only man I know who could put it out."

Sherlock said nothing, pinning me to the wall with a fierce kiss.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: SO the main consensus is that I'm either evil or brilliant or both with my last cliffhanger! Hope you guys enjoy(ish) the resolution(ish). **

**Also, I just started an internship yesterday, so I can't guarantee that I'll have a new chapter out every day like you're used to. That being said, I'm definitely going to try and keep the posts frequent and regular****.**

**Thanks!**

* * *

I was taken aback. I was absolutely floored. Never in a million years, regardless of how many times I had wondered if it would, did I ever think that Sherlock Holmes would be kissing me. Not only that, but kissing me rather aggressively.

It was slightly awkward at first, the force behind it and the unfamiliarity with each other's lips combining all at once, but holy hell was he a fast learner.

My hands flew instinctively to his hair, gripping it slightly at the base of his skull. A small noise came from the back of his throat. Sensitive follicles. Good to know.

But I wasn't able to savor the sensation for long. Without warning, the kiss quickly slowed to a stop and Sherlock pulled away. I looked at him, not knowing what I had done, if I had done anything, wrong.

"Right," he said rather hurriedly, as he strode out of my flat.

_Uh, the fuck?_

I went upstairs to John and Sherlock's flat the next morning, but neither man was in the living room.

_Odd. They're always here around this time._

I walked into Sherlock's room on the off chance that he was there. When I walked in, I saw him sleeping soundly in his bed. He looked so innocent lying there. He might have even been more attractive with his mouth closed. He shuffled a bit in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before he turned over. I shut the door as quietly as I could before making my way up to John's room. He was packing clothes into a rather large suitcase.

"Uh, John? Why are you packing?" I asked warily.

He turned around, slightly startled at my noiseless entrance.

"Oh, Diana. Sarah and I are going to New Zealand for a couple of weeks. I'm going to see an old mate of mine and I'm bringing her along."

"You're leaving today?"

"She's booking the tickets now. Why?"

"I – well, it just seems kind of sudden after…last night."

He nodded slightly, "Yeah, well, I think I need a little break from the guns and bombs and maniacs for a while."

"And going to the land of hobbits and sheep is going to help?" I grinned.

He laughed slightly. "I hope so."

"Does Sherlock know?"

"He was asleep when I went down to tell him. Didn't have the heart to wake him."

"Yeah, me too." I sighed softly, before shutting the door behind me. "He kissed me."

Both the clothes John was holding and his jaw fell to the floor.

"He kissed you?"

"He kissed me."

"Sherlock…kissed you."

"What are you more shocked about, that Sherlock kissed someone or that I was kissed."

"Well, the first obviously. You're sure he kissed you?"

"What? Of course I'm sure! The nerves in my lips are fully functioning."

"I – well – what happened?"

"He kissed me, said 'right' and just walked off."

"And did you say anything to him?"

"Well I was a little embarrassed last night. I mean he basically shoved me against a wall, made out with me, and then high-tailed it out of there like I was diseased or something."

"And you haven't talked to him today?"

"Well, what was I supposed to do, wake the poor guy up and interrogate him?"

"Well…no. I don't know." John paused. "What are you going to do?"

"Do I have to do anything?" I whined. "I mean, I doubt he's even going to mention it. Would he? Oh, I don't know!"

"This is just….ah, there is no such thing as normal in this flat, is there?" He chuckled.

"No," I laughed quietly, "no there isn't." I ruffled my hair, taking a bit of frustration out on it. "Have fun in New Zealand. Really, I think it'll be good for you and Sarah to go out on dates that aren't interrupted by Chinese gang of smugglers or bombs or whatever."

"Right, thanks. I left a note for Sherlock, but he probably won't look at it, so can you –"

"Yeah, sure," I laughed.

I walked him down to his waiting cab, giving him a hug before he left. Things would feel so weird when he was gone.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom just as I reentered their flat to look for the note John had left. When he saw me, a look of embarrassment and shock crossed his face. For a split second, I thought he was going to run back into his room. But, instead he straightened his shirt and walked up to me.

"Diana, about last night."

This was it. I didn't say anything, waiting for him to put me out of my misery either way.

"Last night I – what I mean to say is, I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I don't have relationships. I'm married to my work. I'm sorry if I caused you confusion."

_LIAR! Liar liar, your pants are a towering inferno! I know you well enough to know what you're really feeling just by LOOKING at you Mr. I'm-trying-really-hard-to-hide-my-feelings-even-though-they're-written-clearly-on-my-face! HA!_

But I didn't say that. I couldn't say that. Just looking at the internal struggle he was going through was enough for me to let him win this time. He had shut himself off to emotion for so long he was probably scared of feeling again. I couldn't just dump shit like this on him. I would just have to let it go for a while. Ease him into it, maybe. It didn't take him too terribly long to kiss me. I'm sure with time and a little gentle persuading on my part he would be able to open up. And even if he didn't have romantic feelings for me he'd at least be open to those feelings for someone else.

"It's fine Sherlock. Really. I wasn't confused, I just wanted to know if you were okay."

_Sometimes I hate myself for being nice. It'd be so easy just to make out with him, regardless of whether or not he was scared._

_Stupid. Stupid. STUPID._

Sherlock scolded himself mentally as he walked back into his room, calling himself the one thing he never thought he could be. He didn't even know why he kissed Diana last night.

Well, he did. He just didn't want to admit it out loud.

He couldn't believe he had done it. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't kiss anyone and he certainly didn't feel anything about anyone.

But she smelled so good. And tasted good too.

_DAMMIT._

He needed a case soon. Anything to distract him from her good smell, and the fact that her butt looked really good in jeans and –

Why did his pants suddenly feel tight?

I didn't hear or see Sherlock for the next couple of days. I had sequestered myself in my flat, keeping myself busy with the factories and the company that was fixing up my store. It was little under two weeks until it would be opening. Shit needed to get done and I finally had enough time to do it. I emerged after two days, everything finally done, and went to get a sandwich from the Speedy's café next door to the flat. Sherlock was coming through the door as I went to exit.

"Ah, Diana," he greeted.

"Hey Sherlock. How are things while John's in New Zealand?"

"Oh, is that where he is. I wondered why he wasn't talking to me. Well, I've been keeping myself busy."

"Anything interesting?"

"Nothing at all. I'm horrendously bored."

I chuckled, "Sorry to hear that."

I wondered if I should bring up the kiss thing. How would he react if I did? Was it just a spur of the moment thing or was it a real genuine action?

I was actually getting nervous about the prospect of addressing this.

Nerves getting the better of me, I just smiled at Sherlock and brushed past him as I walked out the flat.

For the next few days, it was hard to tell if I was avoiding Sherlock, or he was avoiding me. Sure, we exchanged niceties if we saw each other, but neither of us went out of our way to spend time with each other. I saw him briefly on my way to my store. He said hi to each other as we usually did, not sparing a large amount of time for conversation. Then again, that day I couldn't. It was two days before my store opened, and I wanted to finish stocking the floor and making sure everything was presentable before the doors opened officially.

I unlocked to door, walking to the back cautiously to turn out the lights to the store front. The smell of artificial air permeated throughout the room. I wrinkled my nose; I never really liked that smell. I looked around the store, not for anything in particular, just wanting to see everything that had fallen into place. I'd need to do some vacuuming and dusting before –

I stopped my thought process, my mind falling blank with shock as I stared at a large blowup picture of one of the women modeling my designs. Scrawled across almost the entire poster in dripping crimson were all capital letters spelling out the word 'WHORE'.

My mind was silent for mere moments, before bursting with thoughts. Who did this? Why did they do it? What was used to write it? How did they get in?

I took a couple of steadying breaths before walking into the store room in the back and grabbing a collapsible metal chair. I propped it up in front of the poster and climbed onto it. It was semi-translucent, and still a little wet. It was turning a brownish red in the dry parts. I really hoped it was costume blood and not the real thing. I leaned forward as much as I dared and sniffed it, hoping to smell the plastic-esque odor fake blood had. However, when the muted metallic smell hit my nose, I knew blood had been smeared on the poster. But why? And who was it from?

I got down from the chair and backed up, pulling out my phone to contact the only person I could think of.

**Come down to my store. There was a break in and blood's on the wall. – DR**

"Come John, we may have a new case."

John, who had literally just walked back into his flat two minutes ago, looked at Sherlock incredulously.

"Oh come on, Sherlock. I've been gone for a week and a half, I literally just got back. Can't you do this one on your own."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment. "Let me rephrase this, there's a case involving Diana and there may be danger for her."

"Let's go."

When Sherlock and John arrived, they were greeted by a couple of police cars. I had called them shortly after sending the text to Sherlock. Maybe it was just because I wanted the comfort of my friends' presence, but I didn't like the fact that I had to call the police. I quite literally had to; my store had been broken into and vandalized. But I didn't like people I didn't know interfering in something as personal as my livelihood.

Sherlock wasted no time jumping into action. He was up and down every inch of my store. If this were any other case, I would have watched him in amused admiration. But I couldn't shake the feeling of violation.

"Are you okay?" John asked, walking up to me.

"I've been better," I sighed.

"So, did you talk to Sherlock about – "

"John."

"Bad time?"

"Bad time. So, how was New Zealand?"

"It was good. The land of, what'd you call it? Hobbits and sheep? It was nice. Really peaceful."

I laughed bitterly, "Welcome home."

I sighed. I needed this conversation to keep going. I needed to be distracted.

"How's Sarah?"

"She's…good."

"Long pause. I thought you liked her."

"I do like her, and I think she likes me. I just don't think she likes the relationship."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we broke up."

"Oh John, I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I guess life with Sherlock isn't compatible for long term-relationships."

Lestrade walked over, ending our conversation.

"Well, the blood is human, that's all we can tell for now until we get it to the lab."

"The security tape is gone and the door was opened with lock picking tools. The blood was smeared on with glove-covered fingertips. My best guess is the blood belongs to the girl in the photo. Do you know who she is?" Sherlock came over, speaking quickly before directing the final question at me.

"Wha – no, I've never met her. I don't handle the casting; I just approve the final shots. Hang on," I pulled out my phone, dialing the casting director for my company. "Susan, I need you to email me a list of all the models we've used and their info. Something may have happened and we're going to need a way to contact them."

After I hung up, I looked back at the three men in front of me.

"Sherlock, I'm giving you full access to my email. I'm going to assume you've worked out my password."

"Naturally," he replied.

"Right, you guys let me know if something happens. I'm going to – I just need to – Just text me." I pulled out my keys and handed them to John. "Please lock up when you leave."

I walked out of my store and hailed a cab. This was just ridiculous. This was the last thing I needed. First, my store got broken into and vandalized. Now there may be a model murdered. Why couldn't the only thing I had ever had just for myself just be left alone? I directed the cab to a coffee shop by the Thames. I just needed to get as far away from this crap as I possibly could, and that was the only place I could think of that had no relation to anything that had gone on since I moved here. I was waiting at the counter for my tea when I heard a voice behind me that I didn't want to hear ever again.

"Hello, little Diana."

I lowered my head, cursing silently as I turned around and stared into the almost black eyes of Moriarty.

"Jim, surprised to see you out in the daytime. Don't you have a lair to lurk around?"

"Jim?" He sounded pleasantly surprised. "Well, that's a new one."

"That's your name." I grabbed the cup of tea that had just appeared on the counter. "Now, goodbye."

"Ooh, little Diana's in a bad mood," he teased as he followed me out of the store.

"Really? What tipped you off?" I asked sourly.

"Aw, did big bad Jim ruin little Diana's day."

"Seriously? Yeah, no, I couldn't give two rat's asses about you right now. I know you think the world revolves around you because of your whole little crime thing, but I have more important things to worry about."

"Did you and Sherlock have a lover's quarrel?" He smirked.

"Jesus Christ!" I spun on my heel and stood face to face with him. If I was in a bad mood before, I was pissed now. "Can you just act like a normal person for five fucking minutes? I mean Jesus, I get it! You're the master puppeteer, pulling the strings and making your criminal puppets dance. That's fan-fucking-tastic for you. But my store, the one fucking thing I could truly call my own, just got fucked with so pardon me for not playing along with whatever this is!"

I walked away, leaving a slightly stunned Moriarty behind me, and walked towards a railing overlooking the river. A few moments later, Moriarty joined me.

"I owe you, you know." He said.

"What?"

"I owe you. You kept your end of the bargain and let me finish my game." He heaved a sigh. It was probably killing him to do something nice for a change. "So, what happened?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," he almost whined. "Look, I'm trying to do something nice and you should know how out of character that is for me. So just tell me what happened before I change my mind."

"I – um, okay. Well, my store got broken into, probably this morning, used lock picks, smeared blood on a poster spelling out the word 'whore' and stole the security tape. Oh and they were wearing gloves, so no fingerprints."

Moriarty blew out a huff of air in surprise.

"Yeah, it's a doozy."

My text alert went off in my pocket. I pulled out my phone and saw the text from Lestrade.

**Blood belonged to Louisa Carrington. Found her body in her flat.**

"Oh, shit," I muttered, laying my head on my arms.

"What?"

I said nothing, just holding up the phone for him to see.

"Well," he said as he looked at the screen. "That certainly makes things worse."

"She was a model for my line. Uuuugh, this is going to be such bad press." I groaned.

Moriarty chuckled, "Caring about press instead of a dead girl? For shame."

"My god, I didn't even know the girl. Yes, it's sad she died. Yes, her parents are going to be devastated. It's an assload of talent to be buried six feet under. Yes, it's bad but I honestly just can't care anymore!"

"Okay, go home, take a bath or whatever it is you do to relax. I'll take care of this."

"How do I know I can trust you with this?"

"Oh little Diana," he smirked. "I thought we made a deal not to lie to each other."

I looked at him, trying to find an ulterior motive.

"There's got to be a catch somewhere."

"No catch," he told me. "Just a one time good dead. Just returning a favor."

"Fine, but don't let anyone see you helping me."

"What? And let people think I turned good?" He scoffed. "No way."

It was three hours later when I got called to the station. I walked into Lestrade's office and saw a medium-sized cardboard box on his desk.

"Um, what's this?" I asked, pointing to the box.

"It was left on the front steps, along with the two guys who murdered Louisa."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Yeah, they just appeared on the front steps, duct taped together. The box contains the murder weapon, the lock pick set they used, the security video from your store and even the clothes they were wearing when they committed the murder."

My phone beeped.

**You're welcome. We're even. – JM**

"Do you know who left it?" I asked.

"That's the funny part. Our security feed has a lapse. It cut out and when the video came back on, there they were." He pulled a small white paper out of the box. "However, this was left in the box."

He handed me the card. It was typed with a typewriter and on it were the words: _From A Friend_.

"Sherlock says he can track down the exact make and model of the machine used to type this to find –"

"Don't bother." I interrupted. "It doesn't matter who they are, just that we got the guys. Whoever did this is just a, I don't know, crime fighting vigilante. London's own Batman. I don't know."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Get these guys with whatever you can."

On my way home, I couldn't stop thinking about what prompted Moriarty to help me. My mother always told me to never look a gift horse in the mouth, but this horse had once strapped my friend to a bomb. I think I was pretty entitled to question it. Even though he said we were even, I doubted this would be the last we heard of Jim Moriarty.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Wow guys, thanks so much for the reviews on the last chapter! This one is rather short, and I think the next on may be as well. These two cases can be found on John's blog (which is a real thing, amazingly enough)****.**

**SpaceHead3: Yes, there is something going on with Moriarty, but don't worry I'm not going to throw in some convoluted love triangle.  
**

* * *

I walked up to the boys' flat the next morning to find Sherlock flipping through the newspaper and John typing away on his computer. Sherlock was a bit upset when told him I didn't want him to follow the note's lead, but he was soon distracted.

"What are you typing?" He asked John.

"Blog." John responded, not looking up.

"About?"

"Us."

"You mean me."

I snorted. John just continued typing.

"Why?"

"Well you're typing a lot." Sherlock explained.

And then, the doorbell rang.

"Right then. So, what have we got?" Sherlock said, putting down his coffee cup and striding towards the door.

He was slightly appeased when a new list of clientele showed up at Baker Street. However, his excitement was dampened when he discovered they weren't what he had either expected or wanted.

"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office." Said the first, a probably middle-aged soft spoken man.

"Boring!" Was Sherlock's reply.

"I think my husband might be having an affair." Came from the second, an overweight woman who, as mean it was to say it, wasn't very attractive.

"Yes." Sherlock responded, obviously thinking along the same lines as me.

"She's not my real aunt. She's been replaced. I know she has. I know human ash." Came from a man with a shaved head and a leather jacket on.

"Leave," Sherlock commanded. I was silently grateful he didn't take the case. That guy slightly freaked me out.

"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files." Was the offer of three suited, serious looking men.

"Boring." Sherlock turned him down.

Things only got interesting when three young men showed up asking for his help. They looked like your average high school nerds, though they were slightly older. The one who seemed to be the leader looked nervous, sleep-deprived and possibly slightly paranoid.

"We have this web site. It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause people miss a lot of the themes." The lead-nerd began.

Sherlock quickly became uninterested and began to walk off.

"But then all of the comic books start coming true." He finished quickly.

Sherlock paused, then walked back to his original place in front of the clients.

"Hm. Interesting."

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Chris. Chris Melas."

"So, Chris, tell me what's going on."

"Well, you see, there's this group of superheroes who call themselves KRATIDES. They're an organization that fight terrorists and protect the world from evil."

"And you say the things in these comic books – " John started.

"Graphic novels." Chris interjected.

"Right, graphic novels. You say they're happening in real life."

"They are! And it's not just that! We've found hidden messages in the stories!" Christ gestured wildly to his friends. "Everyone thinks that KRATIDES are left-wing heroes but they're really right –winged morality spouters! And not only that, but – "

"Let's just stick with the original query, shall we?" Sherlock cut him off. "The things happening in real life. What are they?"

"Well, I've started to see members of KRATIDES in the real world."

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked.

"I saw Sophy, the Wolflady, about three weeks ago in New Cross Station disposing of some unattended luggage. She was the first. And then there was The Flying Bludgeon tackling a mugger on Wandsworth Common. Oh, and I've even photographed Professor Davenport, KRATIDES's, in Beckenham."

Chris excitedly pulled out his phone, flipping to the intended picture and thrusting it at us. There, on the screen was the blue-screened Professor Davenport standing outside of Greggs.

"What if it's just a really convincing costume from a fan?" I asked.

"That's what I thought, until I realized that everything had already happened in the graphic novels. Right down to the very last detail!"

"Has anyone else seen them?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, not that I know. All my family and friends think I'm crazy, but I know this is real! Only these guys and Kemp believe me!"

"Kemp, who's Kemp?"

"He contacted me on the website."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. He just has a smiley face for a picture. The name is the only info on his user profile."

Sherlock paused for a moment, probably considering whether or not to take the case.

"What does this Kemp person tell you to do?"

"Well, he just tells me to spread the word. You know, get the word out that this stuff is really happening."

Sherlock grinned. "We'll take the case."

"You will?" Chris asked excitedly.

"We will?" John and I asked nearly simultaneously.

"We will." Sherlock said. "Go home, get some rest, and we'll be in touch shortly."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Chris said profusely, nearly having to be dragged out of the flat by his two assistants.

"Um, Sherlock," I asked when the front door had closed. "Why did we take a case from Nerdy McCrazy-pants?"

"Bored, need a case, this one is interesting."

"Sherlock, you can't possibly think there's a case here." John pressed.

"Well, John, if you'd been paying attention you would have noticed there are three possible explanations to this."

"There are?"

"Yes. One: KRATIDES actually exists."

"Wait, hold up. You're not entertaining the possibility that this is real. I mean, come on, it's a work of fiction!" I stopped him.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We have not eliminated the impossible and therefore the improbability of the KRATIDES existence cannot be discounted." Sherlock retorted. "Second, Chris could be suffering from some kind of psychological delusions. If this is the case then all he needs is a good medication regime and he's all fixed up. Third: there's the possibility that all of this is being done for his benefit."

"What, like someone trying to fulfill a great wish of his to live in the comic book world?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes, precisely."

"Well we can probably rule that one out. I mean, he basically said that he chased away his family and friends with his crazy."

"Still can't rule it out." Sherlock waved me off. "You two go down to a comic shop and ask about the comics. Anything and everything. Also, Diana you might want to change."

"Why would she – "

"No, I get it," I responded, cutting John off.

I walked down to my flat and exchanged the shirt I was wearing for a more low-cut one and my pants for more tight fitting jeans. Basically, I was dressing up like a bit of a hoe without being too sluttish or obvious. John's eyebrows raised in surprise and confusion when I reemerged.

"Why, um – "

"Comic books, John." I explained.

He didn't get it.

"The majority of people who hang out in comic book shops are normally guys with limited to no interaction with the female population. They will tell anything to a girl that shows interest in them."

"Oh," John replied, still looking slightly confused.

I laughed as I put on my coat. "You'll understand when we get there."

However, both of us were confused when we walked into the shop. I had been to a comic book store only once before, and it was mild compared with the barrage of merchandise that nearly flooded around us as we stood at the front of the store. I sighed, pulling of my coat and handing it to John.

"Go look around, would you? I'm going to go find out what we need to know."

I walked up to the check-out counter while John cautiously walked the aisles. Behind the counter was a sadly-stereotypical nerd. Slightly overweight, bad acne, unshaven and unpleasantly thick glasses.

"Hi," I said silkily as I slid up to the counter.

The poor boy gulped, looking a little shaken. "H-hi."

"My brother over there," I pointed to John, who was flipping through a stack of comics, "he recently got into graphic novels and so I wanted to buy him some for his upcoming birthday. A friend of mine told me about something called KRATIDES. I was wondering if you could tell me about them."

He giggled slightly, shuffling his feet in nervousness. He had probably never even been flirted with, poor kid.

"KRATIDES is actually the name of the superhero organization in the graphic novel _The KRATIDE Chronicles_. They fight off terrorists and protect their home city of Megatownopolis."

"Wow," I purred. "They must be really popular."

"Well, actually they only recently got popular. For a while the publishers were talking about killing it, but then there was this massive boom in sales."

"Well, actually they only recently got popular. For a while the publishers were talking about killing it, but then there was this massive boom in sales."

"Really? When?"

"Uh, about two or three weeks ago."

"Hey, what's the name of the publishing company?"

"White Apple Comics."

"Thanks," I smiled. "John! We're going!"

"Wait," the guy stopped me. "I thought you wanted to buy a comic."

"Oh, yeah. Nevermind." I waved him off.

"Never again," John muttered as we rode in the cab back to Baker Street.

"Too much for you?" I asked, chuckling lightly under my breath.

"There was just so much of it. How do those guys have enough time for all of it? And all of the dolls and games. I just don't get it."

"Well, they generally have no job, no social life and most likely live with their parents. Leaves a lot of time for other things."

John shook his head. "So, did you find anything out?"

"Yeah, the publishing company for the graphic novel is called White Apple Comics. They were selling pretty badly and the company was apparently thinking about killing it until about two or three weeks ago when the sales apparently got a whole hell of a lot better."

"Two or three weeks, but that's when – "

"Exactly. I think Sherlock is right. There is a case here."

When we arrived back at Baker Street, we found Sherlock was accompanied by someone who I presumed to be part of his homeless network.

"Ah, you're back. This is Caroline, she used to work in computers."

"I used a bit of hacking to track the user name to a specific IP address. The IP address is registered to the real Kemp who works for White Apple Comics." She explained.

"That's the company that publishes _The KRATIDE Chronicles_." I replied.

"Exactly," Sherlock interjected. "What did you find out at the comic book store."

"The company was going to pull the comic until sales spiked three weeks ago. Right around the time Chris started seeing the characters." John explained.

"Oh that is brilliant." Sherlock mused.

"What is?"

"Kemp is the only person taking Chris seriously. He had been encouraging him to spread the word on Twitter, Facebook and Google+ as well as on his own website. Despite their mocking of Chris, people have started rushing out to buy the comic so they could be there if and when the events came true."

"But at the cost of this poor kid's sanity?"

"It is brilliant," I agreed. "Devious and slightly morally bankrupt, but brilliant."

We called Christ to come back to Baker Street. Obviously he was relieved to hear that he wasn't crazy, but he was upset to find out what White Apple Comics had been doing.

"So, they used me as advertising? Not caring what I would have to deal with or that I started to question my own mind?" He questioned, attempting to avoid hysterics.

"Exactly. We're sorry Chris." John apologized.

"Well, what can we do?"

"Well technically they haven't done anything illegal so there's not much we can do." Sherlock informed him.

"But – but there has to be something." Chris begged.

"What if we used their scheme against them?" I proposed.

A light crossed Sherlock's face, the plan formulating within seconds.

"Yes, stage an interaction, gather an audience and reveal White Apple's scheme."

"But, how would we do that?" John asked.

"Isn't it obvious, John?" Sherlock asked, even though none of us thought so. "We use the KRATIDES like they did. Chris, what happened in the most recent issue?"

"Uh, let me see." Chris walked over to the laptop and typed quickly into it.

He pulled up a page that contained a synopsis of every issue of _The KRATIDE Chronicles._ In the most recent one, one of the superheroes, Latimer, fought and defeated two ninja terrorists on Shaftesbury Avenue.

"Well, how are we going to do that?" John asked.

"What they're just ninjas." I retorted.

"With exploding ninja stars?" He countered.

Oh, I must have skimmed over that bit. And then an idea hit me. I pulled out my cellphone and called my public relations girl.

"Heather, it's Diana. Does your boyfriend still work in special effects?"

Two days later, we were huddled in a makeshift control room in a bookstore on Shaftesbury Avenue. Sherlock, John and Chris were getting outfitted in their gear and headsets so David, Heather's boyfriend and special effects wizard, could tell them what to do.

"Okay," David explained. "If I say 'Vatican Cameos' into your headset, it means get down. And I mean _get down_."

David put the ninja stars in two little packs and gave one each to Sherlock and John. He then handed what I assumed was Latimer's Phoenix Cannon to Chris, who had been dressed as the hero. It looked like a red potato launcher, but it could actually shoot fire. I had to admit that it was pretty cool.

The three got into positions outside. I looked at the video monitors David had set up to stream a live feed from the streets to get a feel for how he should direct the guys. There was a decent sized crowd there already. Chris had made a post on his blog about the events that were supposed to go down, without revealing he, Sherlock and John were a part of it, of course. These people had gathered to see if the events were actually real. Boy, were they in for a show.

David and his two assistants began directing the boys. I watched in awe as they fought, with explosions and fire going off everywhere. I felt like I was watching a movie, and I could only imagine how the people on the streets felt. I could see a number of people filming it on their phones. I would definitely have to look for the videos on YouTube. As it was getting towards the end, Sherlock and John ran off and came back to the control room. David gave the signal for Christ to unmask. Ripping off the Latimer headgear, Chris turned to his audience.

"My name is Chris Melas. White Apple Comics used me in their sick form of advertising. One of their employees made a profile on my website and conned me into posting about what I saw. White Apple hired actors to portray the characters. They set me up just so they could sell comics. Well, no more!"

The audience burst into applause. Chris looked shocked at the response, but happy nonetheless.

"Good job, boys." I said to everyone in the room.

The next day, we sat in the living room of the upstairs flat. I was in Sherlock's chair reading as John sat in his chair typing on his blog. Sherlock was doing god-knows-what in the kitchen. When he noticed John was writing, he walked over and leaned over his shoulder.

"Geek Interpreter. What's that?" He demanded, looking at the screen.

"That's the title."

"What does it need a title for?"

John just smiled. Sherlock would just never understand the blog. His phone beeped in his pocket, and he looked at the screen gleefully.

"Looks like we've got another one." He said, grabbing his coat and walking out.

John sighed as he closed his laptop and grabbed his coat.

"You know, I'm going to start handcuffing him so he _has_ to _ask_ us to go with him on a case." I told John as I pulled on my coat and followed him down the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Well shit, guys! I'm loving your reviews! Sorry for another short chapter****. I'm trying to pump out the auxiliary stories on John's blog before the real action starts again. Don't worry, things get interesting soon!**

**radiantmoonandstars: Your wish is my command...you just have to be a little patient.**

**stanleydoodles: Wow, thank you so much! That really means a lot to me!**

* * *

We followed Sherlock to Bart's Morgue. Lestrade showed us the body of a woman who was probably in her early thirties. She was pretty, but there were weird red speckles littering her body.

"Julia Stoner," Lestrade informed us as Sherlock began examining her body. "Found by her sister in her room after a night out with her friends. Her sister, Helen, said that Julia had been feeling a bit rundown for the last few weeks but had figured she was stressed because she was getting married soon. We don't really have a firm cause of death, hence why you're here."

"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock asked John, paying no attention to Lestrade.

"Where do you think our clients come from?" John asked.

"I have a website."

"In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website." John looked back at the body. "Right then, dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death, except for these speckles, whatever they are."

John looked up only to see Sherlock heading towards the door. John made a move to go after him, but I stopped him.

"No, just let him be for a while. You bruised his ego a little, so I think it'd be best if we let him cool off, don't you?"

John nodded.

"I'm sure you and I can finish up here. Lestrade, could you give us Ms. Stoner's information."

"Sure," Lestrade said, handing me a manila folder with Julia's files.

John went back to looking at the body, stopping when he got to her feet.

"There are puncture wounds on her ankle," John mentioned, pointing to the minuscule holes in the flesh. "Was she bitten by a snake?"

"Don't know. The tox report said there was poison in her system, but it was unidentified." Lestrade responded.

"Well, it's obvious she was bitten by something." John said.

"Thanks Lestrade," I told him. "But we're going to need Sherlock to crack this one. Sulking or not."

John and I hailed a cab and headed back to Baker Street. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Sherlock.

**Stop pouting and meet us at home. – DR**

**Already there. – SH**

**And I'm not pouting. – SH**

**Could've fooled me. – DR**

**Did you find out anything? – SH**

**Well if you had stayed instead of throwing a tantrum then you would know if we did. – DR**

**I don't throw tantrums. – SH**

**You also can't fool me. – DR**

**Doubtful. - SH**

When we arrived back home, John began to search the internet for the numbers of local zoos to call them and see if any had snakes escape. Sherlock began to rifle through Julia's file.

"She lived with her sister and stepfather, a Doctor Roylott." Sherlock read.

"Doctor Roylott?" I asked. "Shit, he's one of the best cosmetologists in the world!"

"I think he guest starred on Connie Prince's show a few times." John interjected.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered. "Though I do want to pay them a visit. John, you can make your calls on the way."

Sherlock said as he walked briskly out of the flat. John shook his head and sighed as we followed him.

"Do you know where you can get those handcuffs?" He asked. I snorted in response.

The house Julia lived in was really pretty and quite large. We walked up to the door and rang the bell. A woman who I assumed to be Julia's sister opened the door.

"Yes?" She asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced. "These are my friends John Watson and Diana Remus. We're here to talk to you about Julia."

"Oh, yes. Please come in." She held the door open for us. "My stepdad and I were just sitting down for tea. Would you like some?"

"No thank you," John declined.

We were lead into the living room, where Doctor Roylott was seated. When he saw us, he stood up.

"Dad, this is Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Diana Remus. They're here about Julia."

"Yes, of course," Doctor Roylott said. He gestured to the couch across from him. "Please sit."

"What can you tell us about Julia when you last saw her?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the slightly uncomfortable couch.

"Well, she was a bit stressed and seemed tired a lot. She was getting married, so I think it was getting to her. I mean, nothing happened that didn't normally," Helen told us.

"There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her," Doctor Roylott continued. "She didn't seem like she was sick, just tired. I just wish I had known."

Doctor Roylott's jaw started to tighten and he looked as if he was holding back tears.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I told them. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

Helen shook her head.

"I would talk to her fiancé if I were you," Doctor Roylott told us. "I always got a bad feeling about him."

"Dad," Helen chided gently.

"Helen, your sister is dead and I never trusted him. I think I'm a little more than justified to point these people in his direction."

Doctor Roylott scribbled an address onto a scrap sheet of paper and handed it to us. We thanked them for their time and made our way to the fiancé's flat.

Julia's fiancé, Percy Armitage, lived alone in a two bedroom apartment. He kind of reminded me of a lumberjack, or a hipster. He had a big bushy beard and wore a plaid shirt with jeans and loafers. When we walked into his flat, we discovered that the spare bedroom contained numerous snake cages. Maybe Doctor Roylott was right about not trusting Percy.

"Mr. Armitage, do you know how Julia died?" Sherlock asked.

"No," He replied, his voice cracking a little.

"There was an unidentified poison in her system and there were two puncture wounds that looked like a snake bite on her ankle."

Percy looked at us, shock coming across his face and the color leaving.

"Now, none of the zoos are missing any reptiles. Do you want to tell us how the bite got there?" John continued.

"It wasn't one of them," he protested. "Julia hated the snakes. She never goes in the room."

"But she wasn't found in that room, Percy." Sherlock furthered. "She was found at home, in her bed."

"I wasn't even in town that night. I was down in Brighton visiting my sister. I have the train tickets and everything."

Percy fished around in his wallet for the tickets, handing them to us when he found them. Sure enough, the timestamp on the two tickets was proof that he was nowhere near London when Julia died.

We had nothing. Percy's alibi was airtight, and all the snakes were accounted for in his flat.

"She was murdered. She has to have been." Sherlock muttered.

He'd been sitting in almost the same exact sport for the past few days.

"But Sherlock, we have no leads. We've already agreed that it's impossible that a snake could get into Julia's bedroom, kill her and leave without being seen. We've already agreed that even if there was any way it could, it's outrageously uncharacteristic for a snake to act that way. We have no leads." I flung my arms up in despair.

John's phone rang in his pocket.

"Hello?" He answered. "Oh, hello Helen. No we haven't found anything. Are you feeling alright? You sound ill." He paused, listening to her answer. "Oh, well I hope you feel better. We'll let you know if we find anything." He hung up, turning back to us. "That was Helen."

"So we heard," Sherlock muttered.

"She wanted to know if we had found anything new."

"You said she sounded ill?" I asked.

"Yeah, she said she was just tired and feeling a bit rundown."

"Just like Julia, you mean?" I asked cautiously.

"Oh, a link." Sherlock breathed.

"Maybe, or maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Well there's only one way to find out. We're going to spend the night in Julia's room."

"What, all three of us?" John asked.

"Naturally."

"In one bed?" I questioned.

"Well, obviously John will sleep on the floor."

John and I exchanged looks. Sherlock didn't realize that he basically said he and I would be sharing the bed. I had to try really hard to stifle the smile that was threatening to break across my face.

We were shown Julia's bedroom by Helen when we got to the house. There, she started telling us about Julia's last moments.

"She had gone out drinking with a few mates. You know, to relax from the wedding stress. She didn't like to get too drunk, so she wasn't really out of it when she came home. She took a bath and went to bed."

Sherlock walked to the side of Julia's bed and picked up the bottle of what looked to be bubble bath that was on the nightstand. The heavily decorated logo read Roylott's. The bubble bath was from her stepfather's company.

"Did your sister use this often?" Sherlock asked Helen.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Do you use it?"

"I do. Why?"

"Where did you get it?"

"My stepdad gave it to us. It's not available in the shops yet. He wanted us to test it out for him."

"At the same time?"

"Well, no, he gave it to Julia first, and then gave it to me later on. Why are you asking?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but just continued to stare at the bottle.

"We're going to Bart's." He said. "She's coming with us."

"What? Me? Why?" Helen asked.

"To keep you safe, of course."

Sherlock analyzed the bubble bath when we got to Bart's. He still wouldn't tell us what he meant by protecting Helen. After a few moments, the computer beeped, notifying us that the test was done.

"Poison. Slow acting, at that." Sherlock informed us.

"Sorry, what?" John asked.

"The bubble bath, it contains a slow acting poison. Every time Julia and Helen used it they were slowly killing themselves."

"But that's not possible," Helen interjected. "My stepfather promised he had it tested. That is was completely safe."

"Well obviously, he lied. This was no accident, it was cold blooded murder. He killed your sister and now he's doing the same to you. What's more is he tried to frame Percy's snake by putting the puncture wounds in Julia's ankle." He stood up sharply. "And now we're going to go see daddy dearest."

But we were too late. When we walked into the house, it was eerily silent. Helen called for her stepfather, but there was no answer. We walked into the kitchen and saw Doctor Roycott hanging from the light fixture. Helen burst into tears when she saw his body, clinging against me for support. I held on to her awkwardly, not sure of what to do.

"Note?" I asked.

Both Sherlock and John shook their heads, neither seeing the final message from Doctor Roycott. So, regardless of the fact that we solved the case, we'd never know why.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" Sherlock said with a mouthful of doughnut as he looked at John's laptop screen. "The Speckled Blonde?"

John was typing up his most recent blog. I rolled my eyes and waved Sherlock off.

"Don't listen to him, John. I think it's clever."

"Well of course you do," Sherlock muttered.

"Awww, is someone gwumpy wifout a caaase?" I baby-talked to Sherlock.

He merely huffed in response, causing John and I to laugh. Later that day, the doorbell rang. Another client I assumed. I walked down to the door, but I was surprised when I opened it. Two girls, probably 7 and 9 years old, were standing there.

"Can we see Sherlock Holmes please?" The taller, redheaded girl asked.

"I – um, where are your parents?" I asked them.

"They're getting sandwiches next door. Daddy says Sherlock Holmes is a really smart man." The other, a blonde, said.

"Okay, just…yeah, okay." I let the girls inside and led them upstairs.

"Sherlock, you've got clients." I said as I let the girls in. I walked up right next to him and said lowly, "Be nice."

John pulled up some chairs for the girls to sit on, before taking a seat in his chair.

"So, ladies, what can we help you with?" He asked sweetly.

"Our granddad died a couple days ago." The redhead began.

"They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead." The blonde finished. "Is that cause he's gone to heaven?"

"People don't really go to heaven when they die, they're taken to a special room and burned." Sherlock told them.

I thunked my head down on the table. He had ONE job.

"Sherlock..." John scolded.

A few days later, Lestrade called us down to a really remote area in Southwark. He led us out to an area where a car was randomly parked.

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday." Lestrade explained to us as he walked us to the car. "Everyone dead."

"Suspected terrorist bomb." Sherlock interjected. "We do watch the news."

"You said 'boring' and turned over." John corrected.

"Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board." Lestrade said as we reached the car. There was a body stuffed in the trunk.

"Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits." Lestrade continued as Sherlock began to inspect the body. "Here's his passport, stamped at Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

"Lucky escape."I muttered.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Eight so far." Sherlock said, studying the man's hands. "OK, four ideas." He went back and look at the man's personal effects that Lestrade was carrying. Looking in the sky he corrected, "Maybe two ideas."

"No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones." Sherlock complained later that day as John was typing up his blog.

"People want to know you're human." John informed him.

"Why?"

"Because they're interested." I finished.

"No, they're not." Sherlock dismissed. "Why are they?"

"Hmm, look at that." John mused. "1,895."

"Sorry, what?"

"I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly 2,000 hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock, not 240 different types of tobacco ash."

"243." Sherlock corrected sourly.

Days later, we were called into a theater to investigate yet another murder.

"So what's this one?" Sherlock asked John as we walked outside. "Belly Button Murders?"

"The Navel Treatement," John suggested.

I barked a laugh, "I love it."

Sherlock huffed in disdain.

"There's a lot of press outside, guys." Lestrade told us as we walked to the stage door.

"Well, they won't be interested in us." Sherlock informed him.

"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."

"God's sake!" Sherlock muttered, looking at John sourly.

He ducked into a changing room and grabbed a couple hats.

"John." He said, throwing a hat in his direction.

"Hmm?"

"Diana, here." He continued, throwing one at me. "Cover your face and walk fast."

"Nope, not wearing this," I threw the hat back into the room. "It's good press for me."

Sherlock huffed again; any more, and he'll start trying to blow little piggies' houses down.

"Still, it's good for the public image, big case like this." Lestrade offered.

"I'm a private detective, the last thing I need is a public image." Sherlock muttered as we walked into the flashing cameras.

The headlines the next day were quite hilarious. In one titled "Hat-man, Robin and Poison Ivy: Internet Web detectives" they labeled me as the 'femme fatale'. Funny, because I'd never actually done anything to deserve that name; they were just saying that because I sold lingerie, even mentioning that my store was opening officially soon, now that the murder business was cleared up. "Sherlock 'Net Tec" talked about how we had started a new blogging craze. "Sherlock, John & Diana: Blogging Detectives" incorrectly guessed that I was living in the flat with them.

Whatever the case, I really hoped it was going to be good for business.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Yeah, I know the last chapter was a bit crap, so I pumped this out to make up for it****. Hope it did!**

* * *

"Diana, we've got another case," Sherlock said as he banged on my door.

"I can't go," I told him as I opened it.

Both he and John looked at me slightly stunned. Not for telling them I wasn't going to the case, however, but because I was rather dressed up. Black pencil shirt with a royal purple top and a fitted black blazer and my hair put into victory rolls, I had to admit I looked fabulous.

"Wow, Diana, you look great," John told me. "But, what's the occasion?"

"My store, guys." I reminded them. "The official date was moved to today so we could smooth the model murder thing over in the press first. Ringing any bells?"

"So, you're not coming?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope," I told them, grabbing my purse and walking out of the flat.

"Have fun, then," John called me as I got into a cab.

"You too!" I replied, waving at them.

The opening of the store was pretty standard. I was to cut the purple ribbon, yes purple because red would clash with my hair, and greet people as they came in. What wasn't standard was how many women, young girls and a decent number of men were standing out there. The press from my adventures with Sherlock really was paying off. I was thankful after ten minutes that Heather, my PR chair, came over and told me I could stop shaking peoples' hands and come inside. I gratefully took the hand sanitizer she offered, rubbing it in as I walked around the store.

The conversations I had were widely varied. Some people gushed about meeting me and how they were happy to have a store they could go to instead of buying online. Others wanted to talk about Sherlock and what it was like knowing him. But of all the conversations I had, I don't think anything could have prepared me for the one I was to have next.

"You never thanked me, you know." Came a voice from behind me.

I jumped slightly as I turned around. "Jesus, Jim. Do you have to do that every time?"

Standing right behind me was Moriarty, once again dressed in a sharp-looking suit.

"What are you doing here? Stalking me?" I asked.

"I just wanted to see what your fuss was about." He told me, looking around. "I have to say, I'm impressed."

I looked at him, studying his face, desperately searching for an ulterior motive.

"Impressed?"

"What," he held up his hands in mock surrender. "Can't a guy say something nice without there being a catch?"

"You? Nope," I replied, popping the 'p'.

"Clever girl." he grinned.

"So there is a catch?"

"There is."

"But you said we're even."

"We are."

"So then what's the catch?"

"Well, it's not so much of a catch as a proposal."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I was just thinking, a girl like you could have so much more fun on my side."

"I – " The following sounds I made were a verbal keyboard smash. There were literally no words to encompass the shock I was feeling. "Your side?"

"What do you say?"

"I say you're crazy. I don't have sides; I'm World War II Spain."

"What, not Switzerland?"

"No, they fired on both the Allies and the Axis. I'm not fighting against anyone."

"You're technically fighting with me."

"Yeah, well you're Nazi Germany so I'm a little justified."

"They did have nice uniforms, though." He mused.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"All I'm saying is you'd be better off on my side."

"Why do you even care who's side I'm on?" And then it hit me. "You like me."

"I'm intrigued by you. You're not normal."

I snorted. "Wow, thanks."

"And you're pretty good looking."

"Hmm, pretty good looking. It's a step up from not bad looking, I'll admit."

"You're flirting."

"You started it." I paused. "The answer is still no, Jim. Look, I'm not going to try to stop or talk you out of whatever you're planning. I know I'm not able to do that. All I ask is that you keep me out of it."

He thought for a moment. He didn't seem pleased with the answer, but there wasn't really much he could do about it. Try as he might, he'd never be able to change my mind. Maybe I was on Sherlock's side instead of just being his friend. But even if I was, it was still a much better place to be than Moriarty's.

"Fine, but you realize this is the second time you've set Sherlock up to lose."

"I told you, he doesn't do losing."

"He lost last time."

"Nah, that was more like a draw."

"You overestimate him."

"You underestimate him," I countered.

"You know, I'm going to keep trying to convince you." He laughed lightly.

"I kind of figured that, though I'm not entirely sure why you care so much."

He chuckled lightly as he walked off. "Bye bye, little Diana."

Moriarty didn't care, but he knew Diana knew more about Sherlock than she would let on. He needed that kind of information for what he was planning. He knew he had a better chance of finding it out through her than John. Girls were so much easier to manipulate than men.

_And her looks don't hurt either,_ he thought to himself. _Oh the things I would do to that body if I got her alone._

But it was like she was immune or something. She flirted, he flirted, and she saw through his façade almost immediately. He could never underestimate Sherlock, but he had somehow underestimated her. If he was going to convince her to switch sides, he'd have to step up his game. Otherwise, he'd have to get creative with what he was planning.

I walked into my flat, still thinking about what had happened earlier that night. I threw my keys on my table and peeled off my coat.

"You looked nice tonight," said a deep voice behind me.

I jumped, startled yet again. I turned to find Sherlock lounging on my couch.

"Jesus, that's the second time that's happened tonight," I muttered.

"Sorry. How was it?" He asked, smiling.

"It was fine. Are you okay?"

"Yes, why?" He asked, still smiling.

"Because you're acting weird."

The smile vanished from his face, his expression turning into a frown. "I'm bored."

"Didn't you have a case tonight?"

Yes," He said, "But it was easy. The victim did it."

"Sherlock, this isn't a game of Cluedo. The victim can't also be the murderer."

"Ah, yes, but this one was. The murder victim, who played the detective in the play, was also the killer. He swapped the rubber aluminum crutch for a real one in attempt to get the actor who played the killer fired. The killer in the play strikes the detective in the head, causing him to go unconscious, but since it was a real aluminum crutch it killed him. The victim did it."

I just stared at him. That certainly was a bizarre conclusion, but since it was Sherlock I assumed it was right.

"And now you're bored." I stated for clarification.

"Extremely."

"So why aren't you with John?"

"He's off on a date with Sarah."

I paused. "You know they broke up, right?"

"Oh. Well then he's off with whoever it is."

I chuckled. He would never change, would he?

"So then what do you want me to do about it?" I asked.

"Entertain me."

"I don't want to do it." Sherlock whined.

"You have to do it."

"I don't want to do it."

"You told me to entertain you. So I'm entertaining you. Now do it!"

I had brought Sherlock to a pub. I figured he didn't need entertainment, he needed a drink. I had ordered him a Jägerbomb, but he was refusing to drink it.

"You know I like my mind clear." He said viciously.

"Yes, well, think of this as an experiment. I'll be the control."

"Oh you're just saying that because you don't want to drink."

I laughed. "That too. Fucking drink it, scaredy cat!"

He glared at me. "I'm not scared," he muttered.

He looked at the drink before him, staring at it like it was poison. After a moment, he grabbed it and drank it as fast as he could. I grinned. I was going to get him wasted. I got Sherlock to take as many shots as I felt was safe, putting water into his system every so often so he didn't get dehydrated or alcohol poisoning. By the time I figured we should go home, Sherlock was well and truly drunk.

He giggled as I put him in the cab, mumbling some gibberish phrases as I closed the door behind me

"What on earth are you saying?" I asked him.

"It's Latin," he slurred. "It means I'm the smartest man in the world and I should own all the giraffes."

"Right," I laughed.

This was going to be a long night. I was certain of it when I tried to get Sherlock into bed.

"No," he pouted. "I wanna go upstairs."

"Sherlock, you have to go to bed," I said putting on my mom voice.

"I don't wanna. My bed has monsters. I wanna sleep in John's bed."

He brushed past me and stumbled his way towards the stairs. I called after him as I followed, unsuccessfully trying to stop him as he literally crawled up the stairs to John's room.

"Sherlock, there are no monsters under your bed," I told him.

"Yes, there are," he whined.

He was finally up the stairs, stumbling towards John's bed.

"Well then why doesn't John have monsters under his bed?" I asked.

"Because he's a doctor." He replied, his voice holding an unmistakable 'duh' tone.

"Okay?"

I was utterly and thoroughly confused. Sherlock's brain when he was sober was confusing at best, but when he was drunk it was an entirely different world altogether. Sherlock flopped himself on to John's bed and kicked off his shoes. He sat up clumsily, holding his hands over his head.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't take my shirt off," he told me. "Can you do it for me?"

"Sherlock, your shirt is a button up; I can't pull it over your head."

"Please," he whined.

I sighed, and unbuttoned his shirt, draping it across the dresser for the morning. When I turned around, Sherlock was laying on his back, his legs in the air.

"No," I told him firmly, knowing exactly what he wanted me to do.

"Please," he whined again, in a higher pitch.

"You are a five year old!" I muttered, but taking off his pants anyways, but I made sure to leave his boxers on. I was not going to subject John to the thought of Sherlock sleeping naked in his bed.

I wrestled him onto his side so he wouldn't choke on vomit if he happened to throw up. Within seconds, he was passed out. I shook my head slightly, wondering if it had been a good idea to get him drunk. I'd just have to wait and see how he was in the morning.

I was sitting in Sherlock's chair in fresh clothes, since the ones from last night smelled a bit like alcohol, reading the newspaper when John came home the next morning. I think I could safely assume he had spent the night with whomever it was that he had gone out with.

"Morning, Diana," He greeted me. He looked around, confusion settling across his features. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's asleep." I told him.

"You got him to go to sleep?"

"Well, I had to get him drunk first."

"I'm sorry. You got him drunk?"

I chuckled. "Yeah, he kept saying ridiculous things and then repeating them in classic Latin. Even drunk he's ridiculously intelligent. He also may be passed out in your room."

"What? Why my room?"

"He said that yours would be more comfortable because his bed had monsters under it."

John shook his head. "I can't believe you did that."

"Can you blame me? He's been running around on virtually no sleep for the past week! A drunk sleep is better than what he was getting."

"And if he wakes up with a hangover?"

"So we deal with a grumpy Sherlock. It's not like we haven't done it before."

We heard a groan come from upstairs.

"Ah, sleeping beauty must be up." I smiled, turning to John. "Well, doctor, can you fix a hangover?"

John sighed, rolling his eyes, as he made his way upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in.

"Good morning, dear. Where are the boys?" She said.

"In John's room. He's fixing Sherlock's hangover."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, that Sherlock."

She started to clean up the place. John and I refused to pick up after Sherlock a while back. I smiled to myself; for all the times she protested that she wasn't their housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson sure cleaned up after them a lot. She went to the fridge and started chucking rotten food out, before pulling a bag of something red and lumpy out of it.

"Oh, dear!" She squealed. "Thumbs!"

I flinched, my lips curling slightly in disgust. I did not want to know why Sherlock had thumbs in his fridge. She gingerly put the thumbs back in the fridge when a man burst in the room behind her. I threw the paper I was reading down and stood up quickly, just in case he went to hurt her.

"The door was..." He stared, before fainting dead away onto the floor.

"Boys! You've got another one!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.

John brought Sherlock down, wrapped in a bedsheet. My eyebrows knitted in confusion, and John just shook his head in response.

"He refused to put clothes on," he told me, before going to check on the man passed out on our floor. "Come on, big guy, wakey wakey."

The man groaned as he came to. John helped him up and guided him to a chair I had set out.

"Tell us from the start, DON'T be boring." Sherlock commanded.

The man started telling us how he had car trouble, and when he turned the car over and it back fired, the man in the field had somehow died. The man was convinced that he had done it somehow, but didn't know. Sherlock called Lestrade and asked him about the case, and turned to John when he had hung up.

"John, I need you to take your laptop to the crime scene."

"What?" John asked. "Why can't you go?"

Sherlock just pointed at his head. I rolled my eyes.

"Just go on ahead, I'll get him there somehow."

"You won't," Sherlock muttered.

"Hangover or not, you can still have your ass beaten," I jokingly warned him.

Sherlock huffed and walked into the kitchen as John grabbed his laptop.

"This is ridiculous." He muttered.

"Well, at least we know how hungover Sherlock is."

"Never again," he pointed at me.

"You're preaching to the choir."

Sherlock was probably still pouting in his room as I made coffee and waited for John to call on video chat. When the icon on the screen let me know he was, I popped my head into Sherlock's room and told him, still wrapped in the bedsheet, to come out.

"Hey John," I said as I picked up the call. "Hang on, he's coming."

"You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?" I heard John ask almost immediately, regardless of whether Sherlock was visible or not.

"It's OK, I'm fine." Sherlock waved him off, picking up the coffee cup I had left for him and the laptop before carrying both into the living room to sit at the table.. "Now...show me to the stream."

"I didn't really mean for you."

"Look, I'm hungover and this is a six." Sherlock told him. "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, we agreed. Now go back, show me the grass."

"When did we agree that?" John asked, turning the webcam to the grass.

"We agreed it yesterday. Stop! Closer."

"I wasn't even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin."

"Wait, I thought you were on a date." I paused, grinning. "Was her name Dublin? Is that why you were _in_ her?"

"Oh shut it, Diana," Sherlock scolded before turning back to John. "It's hardly my fault you weren't listening."

The doorbell rang loudly from downstairs.

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled at it.

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" John asked.

"I don't know, how often are you away?" Sherlock answered, not missing a beat. "Now...show me the car that backfired."

John sighed, turning the camera to the car. "It's there."

"that's the one that made the noise, yes?"

"Yeah. If you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one." John informed him. "He wasn't shot, he was killed by a single blow to the back from a blunt instrument, which then magically disappeared along with the killer. It's got to be an eight, at least."

"You've got two more minutes; they want to know more about the driver." A man that I assumed was in charge of the investigation said from behind John.

"Oh, forget him, he's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?" Sherlock nonchalantly replied.

"I think he's a suspect." The Detective Inspector said, getting in close view of the camera.

"Pass me over."

"All right, but there's a mute button, and I will use it." John warned.

He turned the camera towards the DI, but from the angle the screen was tilted we were looking directly at the man's gut.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here!" Sherlock ordered frustrated.

"OK. Just take it, take it." John relinquished, passing the laptop over to the DI.

"Having successfully committed a crime without a single witness why would he call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?" Sherlock asked, aggravated.

"He's trying to be clever. It's overconfidence." The DI surmised.

Sherlock sighed, "Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own. The right sleeve of an internet porn addict, the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy, and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?"

"Don't worry, this is just stupid." I turned and told the man who had come to us that morning. He was sitting right behind us.

"What did he say? Heart what?" He asked worriedly.

I didn't answer, not really caring, and turned around to look back at the laptop.

"Go to the stream." Sherlock commanded.

"What's in the stream?" The DI asked.

"Go and see."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said, coming back up the stairs. "You weren't answering your doorbell."

She was followed by two well-dressed men.

"His room's through the back, get him some clothes." Their leader informed the other.

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, Ms. Remus..." the man said reaching out to close the laptop.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" We heard John ask as the laptop screen was shut.

"You're coming with us." The man finished.

The other man brought out some folded clothes for Sherlock, placing them on the table in front of him.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, where you're going you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock turned, beginning to analyze the man. When he was done, he began to smile.

"I know exactly where we're going."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Yay! It's Irene time! Some of you may be a little disappointed with Diana's reaction to her, but I'm really tired of seeing her portrayed as the villain. I just honestly can't see her truly being one.**

**88dragon06: My internship is going great, thanks for asking! There's a bit more downtime than I expected, so it's been easy to write this in between work.**

**Yugioh13: Oh trust me, there are definitely going to be moments like that.  
**

**stanleydoodles: I always wondered that too! Because they had company over and there Sherlock was...in a sheet...  
**

* * *

I couldn't believe it. I was sitting in Buckingham Palace. Sherlock was seated next to me, still wrapped in the bedsheet. I had no idea why he was being so stubborn about it, but then again I didn't know why he did a lot of things. After a few minute, John was led in.

"You wearing any pants?" He asked as he sat down on the couch next to us.

"No." Sherlock replied.

"Okay."

With that, the three of us started laughing. The situation was just ridiculous.

"At Buckingham Palace. Right. I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

We laughed again, less so this time.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asked. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know." He admitted.

"Here to see the Queen?" I asked.

With perfect timing, Mycroft walked in.

"Oh, apparently, yes." Sherlock jibed.

The three of us started laughing again.

"Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" Mycroft sighed.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, she sells lingerie and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope." John told him.

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft." Sherlock said sourly.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" His brother responded. "I glanced at the police report. A bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent."

"Time to move on then." Mycroft picked up Sherlock's clothes, still folded in a neat pile. When Sherlock didn't move to take them, Mycroft sighed. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!"

"What for?"

"Your client."

"And my client is...?" Sherlock asked, standing up.

"Illustrious, in the extreme." Said another man, walking in the room at that moment. "And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous." He turned to Mycroft, greeting him. "Mycroft."

"Harry." Mycroft returned, having put down the clothes he went and shook the man's hand. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother."

"A full-time occupation, I imagine." Harry turned to John. "And this must be Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"Hello, yes." John said, shaking his hand.

"And Ms. Remus. My wife is a fan of your designs."

"Um, thank you," I replied, shaking is hands as well.

Harry turned back to John. "My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John asked.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch."

"Thank you." John said, turning to shoot Sherlock an 'I-told-you-so' glance.

"And Mr. Holmes the Younger." Harry went over to Sherlock. "You look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and short friends." Sherlock said shortly before turning to his brother. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases, both ends is too much work. Good morning."

He began to walk away, but Mycroft stepped on the trailing bit of the sheet, causing it to fall off a bit. Sherlock grabbed it quickly and secured it around his waist, but not before I caught a glimpse of his butt. I distinctly remembered leaving him in boxers, and then I remembered that 'pants' was the British word for underwear. Sherlock was stark naked in Buckingham Palace. Oh god, I could _not_ laugh.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!" Mycroft scolded.

"Get off my sheet!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"I would too," I smirked.

Mycroft looked at me, opening his mouth most likely to scold me too.

"Boys, please... Not here." John cut him off.

"Who is my client?" Sherlock asked fiercely.

"Take a look at where you're standing, and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land, now, for God's sake!" Mycoft had begun to yell, catching himself and calming down before continuing. "Put your clothes on!"

Sherlock stood there, not wanting to give in, but there was no way he could say no at this point. Moments later, he emerged in proper clothing. At Mycroft's invitation, we all sat down to tea like a bizarre little family.

"I'll be mother." Mycroft joked.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"My employer has a problem." Harry began.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen." Mycroft finished.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "We have a police force of sorts, even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

"People come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" Harry returned.

"Not to date anyone with a navy."

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust." Mycroft informed us.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" John asked.

"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."

"I do think we have a timetable." Harry interjected.

"Yes, of course. Erm..." Mycroft opened his briefcase and extracted a photograph, handing them to Sherlock. "What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever."Sherlock replied.

"Then you should be paying more attention. She's been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Irene Adler. Professionally known as 'The Woman'."

"Professionally?" I furthered.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix'."

I raised my eyebrows. Interesting.

"Dominatrix." Sherlock turned the word over in his mouth.

"Don't be alarmed." Mycroft smiled mockingly. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me." Sherlock informed his brother.

"How would you know?"

Whoa, not cool, Mycroft.

"She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." Mycroft continued. "These are all from her website."

Mycroft pulled out more photographs, handing them to us. I looked as Sherlock flipped through them. I had to admit, she was fucking gorgeous. I wondered if I could get her to model for me.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs." Sherlock said.

"You're very quick, Mr. Holmes." replied Harry.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?"

Both Harry and Mycroft were reluctant to answer, but finally Harry gave a vague answer.

"A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Frustrate, Sherlock flung the pictures onto the table in front of us.

"You can't tell us anything?" John asked.

"I can tell you it's a young person." Mycroft stated. "A young female person."

"How many photographs?" Sherlock asked.

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes."

"I assume in a number of compromising scenarios?"

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now."

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, know when you are beaten."

"She doesn't want anything." Mycroft interrupted. "She got in touch. She informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor."

"Oh, a power play." Sherlock breathed. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it."

"Sherlock..." John scolded fruitlessly.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked.

"In London, currently. She's staying..." Mycroft began

"Text me the details, I'll be in touch by the end of the day." Sherlock cut him off, pulling on his coat and standing up to leave.

The rest of us got up, John and I following Sherlock out.

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry questioned.

Sherlock paused and turned around. "No, I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

"I'll need some equipment, of course."

"Anything you require, I'll have it sent..." Mycroft began.

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock directed his question to Harry.

"I'm sorry?" He asked.

"Or your cigarette lighter; either will do." Sherlock held his hand out to the man.  
"I don't smoke."

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does."

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes." He said as he handed the lighter to Sherlock.

"I'm not the Commonwealth."

"And that's as modest as he gets." John finished. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Laters!" Sherlock called behind him as we left.

"Okay, the smoking," John began as we rode back to Baker Street. "How did you know?"

Sherlock grinned. "The evidence was right under your nose, John, as ever you see, but do not observe."

"Observe what?"

"The ashtray." Sherlock said, whipping out the crystal dish from his coat.

John and I laughed. He was absolutely ridiculous. But, nothing could have beaten his actions when we got home. John and I waited in the living room while he started flinging odd bits of clothing around his room.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"I'm going to into battle, John. I need the right armor." He tried on a neon yellow police jacket. "Nope." He ripped it off, unsatisfied.

"She's a dominatrix, Sherlock," I told him. "I highly doubt 'battle' is the right word."  
When Sherlock had finally decided on an outfit, which didn't look like anything out of the ordinary, we got in a cab to go to Irene's place.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked.

"We know her address." Sherlock informed us.

"We just ring her doorbell?"

"Exactly." He leaned up to the cabby. "Just here, please."

"You didn't even change your clothes." John said, confused.

"Then it's time to add a splash of color." Sherlock told him.

"That makes absolutely no sense," I finished, shaking my head slightly.

We got out when the cab pulled to a stop and followed Sherlock down a street.

"Are we here?" John asked.

"Two streets away, but this will do." Sherlock turned around and faced him.

"For what?"

"Punch me in the face." Sherlock instructed.

"Punch you?" John and I said in near unison, but with varying tones.

"Yes, punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'punch me' when you speak but it's usually sub-text." John replied.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" Sherlock reared back and punched John in the face.

"Holy shit, really?" I said, shocked.

Sherlock didn't reply, bracing himself for John's incoming punch. It caught him square on the side of his face. Sherlock stumbled from the impact and John shook his still-clenched fist, the blow having bruised his knuckles.

"Thank you, that was..." Sherlock began, but was cut off by John tackling him. "Okay, I think we're done now, John!"

"You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people." John told him, gripping Sherlock's head in a headlock.

"You were a doctor!"

"I had bad days!"

"You are both ridiculous," I told them, shaking my head in disbelief. For two grown men they acted like such children. "Okay boys, playtime's over."

They didn't stop struggling.

"Don't make me get my mom voice out," I warned, the scolding mother tone already lacing my words.

The boys jumped apart sheepishly, brushing off their clothes and walking past me towards our destination.

"Boys," I rolled my eyes, following them.

We walked up to the intercom on the door. Sherlock breathed a few times and mustered up a distressed character, pressing the call button.

"Hello?" a female voice asked.

"Oh, very sorry to disturb you, um, I've just been attacked, um, and I think they, they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Can you help me?" Sherlock shakily told her.

"I can phone the police, if you want?"

"Thank you. Could you, please? Would you mind if I just waited here, just until they come? Thank you, thank you so much."

She buzzed the door open and we stepped into a rather ornate foyer.

"Thank you." Sherlock whimpered.

He was so pathetic.

"We saw it all happen." I told the girl.

"It's OK, I'm a doctor. Have you got a first aid kit?" John asked.

"In the kitchen." She told him. "Please." she waved her hand towards an open door.

"Could I use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Yeah, there's one down the hall." She told me as she led John to the kitchen.

I waited for her to turn the corner into a different hall before making a mad dash up the stairs. It took me only two tries to find the right bedroom, and I knew I did by the leather riding crop lying across the dresser. I took a quick peek in the dresser drawers, trying to see if she wore anything made by me. She did. That was fucking awesome.

"Excuse me, what the hell are you doing?" The girl's voice came from behind me.

I snapped the drawer shut and turned around.

"Sorry about this," I told her as I grabbed a pressure point in the Vulcan death grip. Yeah, it was a little hokey, but it worked. She slumped down to the floor, unconscious.

I fled down the stairs and caught up with John just as he was about to walk into the room where Sherlock was.

"I thought you were in the toilet downstairs."

"What? Oh, no, personal bathrooms are so much nicer." I replied, slightly out of breath. "Shall we?"

John shook his head slightly before walking in, "Right, this should do it."

We were greeted with the sight of Sherlock being straddled by a naked woman with the clerical collar he had been wearing between her teeth. I could only assume she was Irene Adler. She definitely knew how to make an impression.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" John asked, slightly dumbfounded.

"Hello, Jessica Rabbit," she purred, looking at me.

I smirked, "Yes, but I really am bad, I'm not just drawn that way."

"Ooh, feisty. He keeps good company."

"I'm sorry, are you two flirting?" John asked. He turned to me, "I didn't know you were a…"

"I'm not gay, John. But remember what I do? I'm allowed to have an appreciation for the female form." I turned back to Irene. "And I certainly do appreciate it."

"Flattery too? Oh, you might be my new favorite. What do you do?"

"I design and sell lingerie."

"I might just have to go buy some of yours."

"If you haven't already," I returned with a small smirk.

"Naughty," she smirked as well. Standing up off of Sherlock, "Please, sit down. Or if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some at the Palace." Sherlock informed her as she sat on her chair; obviously upset he was being ignored.

"I know." She told him.

"Clearly."

The two stared at each other, her with a smirk on his face and he with an outrageously confused one. I definitely liked her.

"I had a tea too, at the Palace. If anyone's interested." John said, uncomfortable with the silence.

Sherlock looked hard at her, then to John and me, and then back to her again. I could tell by his expression that he couldn't figure her out at all. I fought to stifle a laugh. I wanted to cherish this moment forever.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" She asked him. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself."

I barked a laugh, sitting in the chair opposite her, "Oh, she's good."

Sherlock threw a vicious glare at me

"Hmm, and somebody loves you." Irene purred, leaning close to him. "If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."

"Ha-ha! Could you put something on, please?" John laughed uncomfortable. "Er, anything at all. A napkin?"

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?"

"I don't think John knows where to look." Sherlock said, standing up, holding out his coat for her.

"No, I think he knows exactly where." She replied, standing in front of John in all her glory. "I'm not sure about you." She directed towards Sherlock, taking the coat and putting it on.

"If I was to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop." He told her.

"You do borrow my laptop." John interjected.

"I confiscate it."

"Never mind, we've got better things to talk about. Now, tell me, I need to know - how was it done?" She asked, sitting on the couch and removing her heels.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"The hiker with the bashed-in head - how was he killed?"

"That's not why I'm here."

"You're here for the photographs, but that's never going to happen and since we're here just chatting anyway..."

"That story's not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?" John asked.

"I know one of the policemen." She told John, "Well, I know what he likes."

"Oh. And you...like policemen?" He asked, sitting next to her.

"I like detective stories. And detectives. Brainy is the new sexy."

Sherlock went to say something, but whatever he meant to say came out as a verbal keyboard smash.

_Holy shit, I think she broke him._

"The position of the car relative to the hiker, that and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head, that's all you need to know." He recovered quickly.

"OK, tell me, how was he murdered?" She replied.

"He wasn't."

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I know it wasn't."

"How?"

"The same way that I know the victim was a sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

"Okay, but how?"

"So they are in this room. Thank you." Sherlock turned to us. "John, Diana, man the door, let no-one in."

John and I left the room, knowing that Sherlock would probably want us to create a distraction. John pulled out the lighter Sherlock had taken from Harry earlier that day and waved it slightly. He grabbed a magazine and rolled it up. He flicked on the lighter and lifted it towards the rolled paper.

"Wait, not yet." I whispered. "You go over there and wait, I'm going to listen in and signal you when we should set the alarm off."

"Got it." He said, walking over and setting a chair under the detector.

I leaned my ear against the door, just barely able to hear the voices behind it.

"I don't understand." Irene told Sherlock.

"Oh, well try to." He replied.

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think. It's the new sexy."

"The car's going to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise."

"So what?"

"Noises are important."

I began to wave frantically to John. He lit the magazine and held it up against the detector.

"They can tell you everything. For instance..."

The alarm went off, the shrill noise permeating the residence. I had only hoped it had the desired effect.

"All right, John, you can turn it off now." Sherlock yelled.

"Do you know how?" I asked John.

"I said you can turn it off now!" Sherlock yelled louder.

"Give us a minute!" John yelled back.

But we were interrupted by four men in suits coming down the stairs. The lead one shot at the alarm with a silenced gun, effectively shutting it off.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked severely.

"Language, young lady," the man replied, grabbing me by the arm while another pointed his gun at John.

"Thank you," John said, referring to the alarm.

The men listened to Sherlock and Irene talk for a few moments before they forced us into the room.

"Hands behind your head, on the floor, keep it still!" The man ordered.

"Sorry, Sherlock." John apologized as we were forced to kneel, cold steel pressing into the backs on our necks.

"Miss Adler, on the floor!"

"Don't you want me on the floor, too?"

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe."

"American. Interesting. Why would you care?"

"Sir, the safe, now, please. "

"Neilson, this is ridiculous." I hissed.

"Not another word out of you, young lady. I have half a mind to tell your father what you've been up to while you've been here."

"And I could tell your wife you've been cheating on your diet and your poker buddies about that trick sleeve of yours." I countered.

Neilson stiffened.

"How on earth do you two know each other?" John asked, utterly dumbfounded.

"My dad went to college with him. Neilson watched me grow up. How lovely to see you again," I finished sarcastically.

"Likewise," He returned in the same tone. "Mr. Holmes, the safe, now."

"I don't know the code." Sherlock

"We've been listening, she said she told you."

"If you've been listening, you'll know she didn't I assume I missed something. From your reputation, I assume you didn't, Mr. Holmes."

"She's the one who knows the code, ask her!" John demanded.

"Yes, sir, she also knows the code that calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust her." Neilson informed him.

"Mr. Holmes doesn't..." Irene tried.

"Shut up!" Neilson cut her off. "One more word out of you, just one and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship. Mr. Archer, Mr. Bloom, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson and Ms. Remus."

"What?" John asked, alarmed.

"My dad will fucking kill you," I warned venomously.

"He won't even know."

"I don't know the code." Sherlock insisted.

"One."

"I don't know the code."

"Two."

"She didn't tell me, I don't know it!"

"I'm prepared to believe you, any second now. Three!"

"No, stop!"

Sherlock paused a moment, before slowly typing in the numbers one by one. I turned slightly towards Irene, and she mouthed 'gun' slightly. My eyes widened as I looked from the safe to the probably trajectory of the bullet. It would hit John's captor in the chest. As I came to that conclusion, the safe beeped as it was unlocked.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please."

Sherlock turned towards us. I shot him a warning glance and I could only assume Irene was doing the same.

Sherlock saw the expression on Diana's face, and the way Irene looked away. It could only mean whatever was in the safe was meant to injure.

"Vatican cameos!" he instructed, referring back to the superhero case.

As he flung the safe door open he ducked, wrestling the gun away from Neilson and struck him across the face with it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Irene and Diana taking out their respective captors in unison. As if they had planned it out before hand, they elbowed them in the crotch, twisted the guns away from them and stood behind them. In almost the exact same stance, they pointed the guns at their hostages.

_Dear god_, he thought. _There's two of them._

"Do you mind?" He asked them.

"Not at all." Irene said.

"My pleasure." Diana spat.

And again, like choreography, they struck the men in the back of the heads, knocking them out.

_Two of them! I can barely handle one!_

John stood up, gesturing to the body with the gun he now held. "He's dead."

"Thank you. You were very observant." Irene told Sherlock.

"Observant?" John asked.

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be," Sherlock replied.

"Flattered?" John asked, still confused.

"There'll be more of them," I interrupted. "They'll be keeping an eye on the building. He always has back-up."

"We should call the police." John suggested.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed.

We followed him out to the street where he fired the rest of the cartridge into the sky.

"On their way." He informed us as

"For God's sake!" John scolded.

"Oh, shut up, it's quick." Sherlock said as he brushed past us to go back into the house. "Check the rest of the house, see how they got in."

I followed Sherlock back to the living room.

"Well, that's the knighthood in the bag." Sherlock told Irene as he took out her phone.

"Oh, and that's mine." She held her hand out expectantly.

Sherlock tried opening the phone, but all it said was **I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED**. Password protected, of course.

"I'm guessing the photographs are on here." I stated.

"I have copies, of course." She defended.

"No, you don't." Sherlock disagreed. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are proven to be unique, you couldn't sell them."

"Who said I'm selling?"

"Well, why would they be interested?" I indicated to the three unconscious and one dead Americans on the floor. "Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs."

"That camera-phone is my life, Mr. Holmes." She told him, stepping closer and reaching out her hand again. "I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."

"Sherlock!" John called from another room.

"It was." He informed her.

We followed John's voice up to Irene's room. Her PA was still passed out on the floor. The CIA guys must have knocked her out again.

"Must have come in this way." John said, gesturing to an open bathroom window.

"Clearly." Sherlock replied.

"It's all right, she's just out cold." John informed Irene.

"Oh, God knows she's used to that." She replied. "There's a back door. Better check it, Dr. Watson."

She walked over to her vanity, leaning on it slightly.

"Sure." He said, leaving.

"I'll go with you," I told him.

I followed him downstairs to check the backdoor. Just as I had guessed, it was locked and secure. That meant she had wanted to be alone with Sherlock. But for what purpose? We walked back in to see Sherlock lying on the floor in some kind of drug induced stupor. He was trying and failing to get up, his tongue not working properly.

"Jesus! What are you doing?" John asked as we walked in.

"He'll sleep for a few hours." She told us, walking towards her bathroom. "Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit; it makes for a very unattractive corpse."

"What's this? What have you given him?" John picked up the needle. "Sherlock?"

He went over to check Sherlock while I remained staring at Irene.

"Soporific?" I asked.

"Something like that," she smiled. "He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John pressed.

"You know, I was wrong about him." She said, perching herself on the windowsill. "He did know where to look."

"For what? What are you talking about?" John asked as I leaned against the bathroom doorframe.

"The key-code to my safe."

"What was it?"

"Shall I tell him?" She asked, directing her question to Sherlock.

"Your measurements." I replied, lifting my eyebrow slightly and pursing my lips.

"Ooh, definitely my favorite." She replied as she slipped out the window.

_She's good._ I thought. _A bit extreme, but good._


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Phew, so you guys like this Irene! I was legitimately worried people would get upset I didn't make her a bad guy. **

**Please keep the reviews coming; I love hearing your feedback!**

* * *

Lestrade and a few more policemen arrived as soon as Irene had slipped away. Good thing too, because there was a dead CIA in the living room, and we weren't equipped to handle it by any means. Lestrade helped us get Sherlock into the cab he had called for us.

"Jesus, this is worse than when he was drunk." I muttered under the strain of Sherlock's weight.

"He was drunk?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, last night."

"Man, I wish you had gotten pictures of that." He replied.

Then I noticed he was holding his phone in an unusual position. I smacked his hand.

"Don't film him," I scolded.

"I wasn't," He protested.

"Don't lie to me and make me get my mom voice out." I said putting my hands on my hips.

"No really, don't" John told him. "It's scary."

We tucked Sherlock into bed when we got home. He stopped mumbling after a while and went to sleep. I refused to take off his clothes again, not wanting a repeat of Buckingham Palace. John and I were sitting in the living room, neither wanting to go to sleep just in case.

"John?" We heard Sherlock call from the other room. "John! Dialna!"

His tongue must not be totally functional again, because there definitely wasn't an 'l' in my name. We went into Sherlock's room to see what was wrong.

"You okay?" John asked as we opened the door, seeing Sherlock on the floor.

"How did I get here?" He asked.

"I don't suppose you remember much, you weren't making a lot of sense."

"You were so out of it you couldn't tell a conversation from a giraffe." I added.

"Oh, I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone." John finished.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked.

"Where's who?" I countered as Sherlock began to clumsily walk around his room.

"The woman, that woman."

"What woman?" John questioned again.

"The Woman! The Woman, woman!"

"Oh, Irene Adler? She got away, no-one saw her." He told Sherlock.

"She wasn't here, Sherlock." I told him gently.

Sherlock tripped and fell to the floor, beginning to crawl to his bed.

"What are you? What? No, no, no. No. Back to bed." John said as we picked up Sherlock and set him down on his bed again.

"You'll be fine in the morning." I said as I pulled the covers over him. "Just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine, I am fine. I'm absolutely fine." Sherlock protested.

"Yes, you're great." John agreed mockingly. "Now, we'll be next door if you need us."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all." John said as he closed the door behind us.

The next morning I joined the boys for breakfast, the three of us accompanied by Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft as well.

"The photographs are perfectly safe." Sherlock informed his brother.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?" Mycroft asked.

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants...protection, for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

"She'd applaud your choice of words." Sherlock grinned. "You see how this works? The camera-phone is her get out of jail free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

"I would. I mean, she wears my underwear, so I like her." I stated.

"How could you know that?" John asked.

"Mycroft, do you remember the circumstances of your first call to me?"

"Quite clearly," he responded.

"History tends to repeat itself." I smirked.

"Oh, Diana. You didn't." He scolded.

"What circumstances? What history?" Sherlock interjected.

"Just a private joke between your brother and me."

Sherlock, hating more than anything to have something hidden from him, especially when it involved his brother, screwed up his face in an expression resembling a rather disgruntled otter. Just then, a muffled female moan was heard.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Text." Sherlock replied shortly, getting up to get his phone.

"But what was that noise?" I elaborated the question.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft? Before you sent John, Diana and I in there." Sherlock asked his brother, avoiding the answer as he grabbed his phone and sat back down.

"CIA trained killers, nonetheless." I added.

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft." John finished sarcastically.

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that." Mrs. Hudson said as she set a plate in front of Sherlock."Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes!"

"Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" He spat viciously.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock, John and I shouted in almost unison.

He was taken aback, not having expected the three of us to have such a reaction. He smiled, coldly and unwillingly.

"Apologies." He replied reluctantly.

"Thank you." She replied, walking off.

"Though do in fact shut up." Sherlock muttered after her.

The moan was heard again.

"Oh, it's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson blushed.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do, as far as I can see." Sherlock told his brother, ignoring her.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her." Mycroft countered.

"Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is The Whip Hand."

"Most amusing." Mycroft said as his phone rang. "Excuse me. Hello?"

He walked out of the room to answer it.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John asked when Mycroft was gone.

"What noise?" Sherlock asked.

"That noise, the one it just made."

"It's a text alert, means I've got a text."

"Right, but your texts don't usually make that noise." I stated.

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise."

"Hmm, so every time they text you..." John started.

But the moan text alert cut him off.

"It would seem so." Sherlock finished.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life it's..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off.

"But I'm wondering who could have gotten hold of your phone. It would've been in your coat." John told him.

"I'll leave you to your deductions."

John and I exchanged a look, both trying to hide the smirks coming across our faces. We knew exactly who made the noise and put it on Sherlock's phone. She was very good.

"I'm not stupid, you know." John told him, still smirking.

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock muttered, holding the newspaper high to block his view of us.

"Bond Air is go, that's decided." Mycroft said quietly into his phone as he walked back in. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later."

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked his brother, who returned with a confused look. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more. Much more. Something big is coming, isn't it?"

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours." Mycroft told him. "From now on, you will stay out of this."

"Oh, will I?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You will. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love." Sherlock said, beginning to play 'God Save The Queen' on his violin, following Mycroft out of the door to the room.

It was Christmas not too long afterwards. I didn't want to go home for the holidays because I wanted to spend my first Christmas living in London actually in London. So, my parents and I compromised by mailing our gifts to each other and video calling on Christmas Eve.

"Eeep!" My mom squealed as she opened her present. "Oh honey, this is wonderful!"

I had gotten her an almost exact replica of Scarlett O'Hara's dress in _Gone With the Wind_, my mother's favorite movie. She had been talking about having a New Year's Costume ball and now she had the perfect costume for it.

"And honey, that golf set you got me will make all the boys at the country club jealous." My dad told me, smiling.

"Okay, now open your gift." My mom said excitedly.

I picked up the small box off of the table.

"Now, you told us not to get you something _big_, so we didn't," she giggled.

I opened the box and my jaw dropped. Inside the box was a ring that I had no business wearing.

"18 karat white gold, 24 carat aquamarine and diamonds brighter than the stars," My dad illustrated.

"Guy, I said nothing big," I breathed, not taking my eyes off the ring. "This is Piaget, this is way too expensive."

"Well honey, how much do you think your gifts to us cost all together?" My mom asked me.

"That's not the point."

"The point is we are proud of you, darling," My dad told me. "And if we want to spoil our only daughter in whatever way we can now that she's a business woman, we're dang sure gonna."

I smiled. My parents were ridiculous.

"Thank you guys, it's wonderful. I love you."

"We love you too honey. Now, you better wear that ring to your get-together tonight little missy!" My mom instructed playfully.

"I will. Merry Christmas, mom. Merry Christmas, dad."

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

I hung up the call and slipped on the ring on my middle right finger as I walked upstairs. Sherlock was playing 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' on his violin. Mrs. Hudson was seated in his chair, and Lestrade was leaned against the kitchen doorframe. John was in the kitchen with…whatever her name was.

"Lovely, Sherlock. That was lovely." Mrs. Hudson told him as he finished.

"Hmm, marvelous." John said as he walked over, a cup of tea in one hand and a beer in the other.

"Yes, very good." Lestrade agreed.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers." Mrs. Hudson giggled.

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock told her grimly.

"Blimey, Diana, that is some rock!" Lestrade exclaimed as he caught sight of my hand.

"Wha – oh, yeah. Gift from mom and dad," I explained, waving my hand lamely. "The spent far too much money on it, but what can you do?"

"I'd have loved parents like that," John laughed lightly. He bent down to Mrs. Hudson, offering her the tea. "Mrs. H?"

John's female friend offered Sherlock a pastry from the tray she was holding.

"No thank you Sarah."

The girl lowered the tray, a look of disappointment on her face, and put it on the table.

"No, no, no, he's not good with names," John comforted her.

"No, I can get this." Sherlock said, waving his violin bow slightly about. "Sarah was the doctor, then there was the one with the spots, then the one with the nose and then, who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody." she replied, crossing her arms.

"Jeanette!" He exclaimed lightly. "Ah, process of elimination." His face darkened slightly as his eyes caught sight of the door. "Oh, dear Lord."

I turned and saw Molly walking up, laden with two bags of gifts.

"Hello, everyone." She said brightly. "Sorry, hello. It said on the door to come up."

"Hello, Molly."

"Hello, Molly!" We all said with varying volumes.

"Everybody saying hello to each other, how wonderful!" Sherlock muttered.

Molly smiled as she began to take off her coat.

"Let me, er... Holy Mary! Wow!" John offered to take her coat, but was stopped when he saw what she was wearing: a slinky black dress with a faux diamond lining on top.

"Dang, Molly. You look good!" I exclaimed, taking a seat at Mrs. Hudson's feet.

"Oh, thank you," the replied sheepishly. "So we're having Christmas drinkies?"

"No stopping them, apparently." Sherlock muttered.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it." Mrs. Hudson told her.

"John?" Sherlock called from his seat at the laptop.

"Hmm?" he replied, walking over.

"The counter on your blog still says 1895." Sherlock told him, pointing at the screen.

"Oh, no, Christmas is cancelled," John exclaimed sarcastically.

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" Sherlock despaired.

"People like it." I told him.

"No, they don't. What people?" Sherlock questioned.

"How's the hip?" Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking."

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." Molly realized what she had said. "Oh, God, sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly." Sherlock instructed dryly.

"No, sorry."

"Here you are." Lestrade said as he handed her a glass of wine.

"Thank you. I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were in Dorset for Christmas?" She asked.

"First thing in the morning, me and the wife, back together, sorted."

"No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher." Sherlock muttered.

"And John, I hear you're off to your sister's?" Molly turned to John.

"Yeah."

"Sherlock was complaining. Saying." Molly said, throwing a pointed glance at Sherlock.

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act, off the booze." John told her.

"Nope." Sherlock popped.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" I hissed.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly. You're serious about him." Sherlock said.

"Sorry, what?" She asked.

"You're seeing him tonight, giving him a gift."

"Take a day off." John muttered.

"Shut up and have a drink." Lestrade ordered Sherlock, setting a glass in front of him.

"Oh come on, surely you've all seen the perfectly wrapped present on the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow." Sherlock said, standing up. "All the others are slapdash at best. It's for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association, or one she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. That she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift. It suggests long-term hopes. That she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what's she's wearing, obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts."

Sherlock trailed off, having opened the tag on the front. Judging from Molly's horrified and embarrassed expression, I could gather that the gift was meant for Sherlock. I pursed my lips and shook my head. He was so stupidly blind, sometimes. I saw Sherlock gulp, guilt coloring his face.

"You always say such horrible things." She told him shakily. "Every time. Always. Always."

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, kissing her softly on the cheek.

I raised an eyebrow. Maybe there was hope for him after all. But, the moment was ruined by Irene's text alert going off.

"Oh, no!" Molly said, jumping back, embarrassed. "That wasn't, I didn't..."

"No, it was me." Sherlock informed her, reaching in his breast pocket for the phone.

"My God, really?" Lestrade asked.

"What?" Molly continued.

"My phone." Sherlock clarified acidly.

"Fifty six?" I asked softly.

"Fifty-seven." John corrected.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked us.

"Fifty seven of those texts, the ones I've heard."

"Thrilling that you've been counting." Sherlock said, having read the text he walked to the mantelpiece and pulled out a box from behind a picture.

Red wrapping paper with black velvet tassel wrapped around it…Merry Christmas from Irene.

"Excuse me." Sherlock said, leaving and walking towards his bedroom.

"What's up, Sherlock?" I asked.

"Said excuse me." He repeated.

"Do you ever reply?" John asked.

John turned to me as Sherlock shut his door. "What was that about?"

"Like I would know," I countered. "But whatever it is, I think it just ended the party. Sorry guys." I got up and motioned for John to follow me to check on Sherlock.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight." We heard Sherlock say as we gently eased the door open. He paused, listening to whoever was on the other end of the call. "No, I mean you're going to find her dead."

John and I froze, glancing at each other. Neither of our expressions were happy. Sherlock hung up his phone and walked over to the door.

"You okay?" John asked him.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, shutting the door on us.

"Do you have any idea what that was about?" John asked me as we walked back into the near deserted living room. Molly and Lestrade had left, leaving only Mrs. Hudson and Jeanette.

"Irene Adler's phone was her protection. She said she'd die without it."

"So?"

"So that was probably her phone in the box."

"Oh," John said, realization dawning on him.

Moments later, Sherlock burst out of his room, gliding wordlessly to the door and down the stairs.

"Sherlock," John called after him.

My phone started ringing.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Irene Adler's body is in the morgue. Sherlock is coming to identify the body." Mycroft told me.

"Okay," I said slowly, not entirely understanding.

"I need you and John to search the flat, find and remove any contraband."

"Oh," I said, finally getting it, "I got it."

I hung up and turned to John.

"We have a bit of work to do."

We began to search the flat. About an hour later, John's phone rang. He answered, listening to who I assumed was Mycroft.

"No. Did he take the cigarette?" John asked.

Pause.

"Shit!"

He did.

"He's coming, ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the bedroom." Mrs. Hudson said, emerging from his room.

"It looks like he's clean," I said. "We've tried all the usual places."

"Are you sure tonight's a danger night?" John asked into the phone.

Long pause.

"I've got plans."

Pause.

"Mycroft?" John asked.

Mycroft must have hung up. I sat in John's chair as he sat beside Jeanette on the couch.

"I am really sorry." He told her.

"You know my friends are so wrong about you." She told him.

"Hmm?"

"You're a great boyfriend."

"OK, that's good. I always thought I was great."

"Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man." she replied.

I scoffed. _What a bitch._

"Oh, Jeanette, please." John begged.

"No, I mean it. It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him. And he can't even tell your girlfriends apart!" She said, getting up and putting on her coat

"I'll do anything for you; just tell me what it is I'm not doing."

"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'll walk your dog for you. There, I've said it."

"I don't have a dog!"

"No, because that was the last one. Okay."

"Jesus!" She grabbed her purse and walked towards the stairs.

"I'll call you."

"No!" She called up.

"Okay."

"And your dress was ugly, anyways," I yelled down the stairs after her.

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs. Hudson said to John.

He merely sighed in response. John and I stayed up, waiting for Sherlock to come home. We sat by the fire, doing what we could to keep ourselves occupied. It was quite late by the time we heard him walk up the stairs.

"Oh, hi." John said, turning towards him.

He just stood there, as if in a trance.

"You okay?" I asked.

He snapped out of it slightly, striding towards his room.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time!" He said briskly.

John and I sighed. Sherlock was acting normal, but there was something off about him.

"I'm going to bed, now that he's home. Let me know if something happens, okay?" I asked John.

"Yeah, sure. Goodnight."

"Night."

I walked down to my flat, and when I walked into my bedroom I noticed a box with black wrapping paper on it and a white card lying on top. I walked over to it, picking up the card and opening it.

_**Thought it might go with the ring.**_

_**Don't worry, I got it honestly.**_

_**Merry Christmas, Diana.**_

_**-Jim**_

I opened the box gingerly and gasped. It was a Piaget necklace. Diamonds, emeralds, aquamarines, tourmalines all in white gold. It cost more than I dared to imagine. My stomach bottomed out and I sunk to the floor.

He had definitely upped his game. But was he trying to buy me, or something worse?

* * *

**For those of you who are interested, here's the link to Diana's presents. It's not letting me put the full link, so copy/paste and put www(.)piaget [minus the parenthesis] before the link.**

**.com/jewelry/white-gold-aquamarine-diamond-ring-g34lh400#**

**.com/jewelry/white-gold-aquamarine-diamond-necklace-g37l9700**

**Yes, totally over the top, but that's the point!**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! Please keep them coming!**

**I'm toying with an idea: to do an alternate story line where Diana accepts Jim's offer. Let me know what you guys think, because I'm just playing with logistics for the moment.**

**Avis11: It's explained (ish) in this chapter, but in all actuality I don't know yet. The characters are still developing at this point, but right now he's sort of like Sherlock is with Irene. He's slightly intimidated even though he's smarter, because she sees things he can't.**

* * *

Sherlock had been seemingly out of it since he had gotten back that Christmas night. He had barely spoken to anyone, barely eaten or slept. One could almost say that he was acting as he always had, but when you saw the expression on his face, you could see the hint of sad he was desperately trying to hide.

"Sherlock, please, you have to eat something." I told him, gently, setting a plate of food down in front of him.

"Not hungry," he replied, not looking up from the laptop he was typing on.

I sat down in the chair next to him.

"Sherlock, please."

He looked at me.

"Why are you so insistent?"

"You haven't eaten in three days. Please."

"Not. Hungry," he repeated bitingly, returning to his typing.

I sighed.

"Well, I'm leaving it here for you just in case."

I stood up, walking back to the kitchen where John was.

"It's been days. What's wrong with him?" John asked as I leaned on the counter next to him.

"He's sad. She's dead."

"But he barely knew her."

"Doesn't matter," I replied. "He knew enough."

My phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out, not looking at the caller ID before answering.

"Hello?"

"You never told me what you thought of my Christmas present," I heard Moriarty say from the other end.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to call you about that. A bit over the top, don't you think?"

I could feel him grin through the phone.

"Well why don't you let me take you out and you can tell me."

"Now isn't really a good time." I replied.

"If you don't come out, I'll just come there."

I groaned lightly. "Fine, we can go get coffee."

"Same place as last time."

"Sure."

I hung up and turned to John.

"I've got to run. Text me?"

"Yeah," He sighed.

I walked into the coffee shop to see Jim already sitting at a table, a cup of tea where he intended me to sit.

"You know my order?" I asked as I sat down.

"I can be romantic if I want to."

I snorted. "Romantic. That's like you doing something without there being a catch. Not possible."

He frowned, leaning back in the chair. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Seeing right through me. I don't like it."

"Well if you weren't so predictable, I wouldn't be able to."

"Predictable?" He asked, leaning forward. "I'm not predictable."

"Okay, maybe predictable was the wrong word. But then again, after you basically told me your motives, I start seeing everything you do as a trap."

He grinned, "So you liked my gift, didn't you?"

"About that," I said, reaching into my purse and pulling the box out. I placed it in front of him. "This was far too much."

"You don't want it?"

"I never said that. I'd be a fool to not want it. It's gorgeous. But that doesn't mean I'm going to keep it."

"I'm not trying to buy you, Diana."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe I partly am. Stop doing that."

"Stop being obvious."

He pushed the box back towards me.

"Keep it." When I didn't move, he continued. "Don't make me force it on you."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the box, reluctantly putting it back in my purse.

"Doesn't mean I'm going to wear it," I told him.

"Switch to my side."

I groaned. "I already told you, no."

"And I already told you I'm not going to give up."

"Why me? Why not John?"

"You're prettier than John."

"And that's not your real reason."

"You're doing it again."

"Tell me and I'll stop."

He didn't answer. I studied his face, trying to pick up any hint of his motives.

"Stop it," he whispered fiercely.

"I do more than intrigue you, don't I?" I asked. "In your own little way, deep down, you fancy me."

"I don't."

"No, you're right." I replied, leaning back slightly. "A man like you is above petty emotions like that. Everything you feel is complex; it has a catch. You like me until I'm no longer relevant. The moment I stop being significant or intriguing or whatever, I'm expendable. Well sorry Jim, but I don't play the game that way. I'm not a pawn, so I suggest you stop thinking of me like that."

"Oh Diana. Little Diana. You were never just a pawn," He told me, smirking slightly.

"I think I was until I got to you," I told him. "No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will, you said. But I did, and it pisses you off. That's why you need me."

His eyes narrowed, his smirk melting into a pursed frown.

"And I think that's why you came to my store opening," I continued. "And sent me that gift. And invited me here. You weren't just trying to flatter me and buy me. You knew I was smart enough to see through it if you were, and just like everything it would have a catch. You were trying to open yourself up as much as you dared to, whether you knew it or not. You need me to trust you so I'd come over to your side. You need whatever I know about Sherlock for your little plan. Well, I'm sorry, Jim, but the answer is and will always be no."

"He will lose," he told me darkly.

"If he does, so do you."

"How so?"

"Your little business thrives on criminal activity. You need Sherlock and the law-upholding part of his nature to help perpetuate that. Keep you on your toes; make your schemes cleverer. If there were no laws, no one would need to come to you for your business, and if there was no Sherlock, you'd get so bored."

"But I'd get you."

"No you wouldn't." I told him, the tone of finality staining my voice.

"I'm still not going to stop."

"And I'm not going to say yes. We can keep playing this game until eternity, Jim. We're too stubborn to change our minds."

I stood up to leave.

"Until next time, little Diana." Moriarty called after me.

Another few days passed, Sherlock not changing in his behavior save for switching from the laptop to playing his violin. He would pause every so often, scribbling the notes he played on a blank piece of sheet music. I was sitting on John's chair while Mrs. Hudson tidied up a bit. John put his jacket on, not wanting to be surrounded by the sad music any longer.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock, haven't heard that one before." Mrs. Hudson told him, picking a few plates off the table.

"Composing?" John asked.

"Helps me to think." He responded.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked him.

"The count on your blog is still stuck at 1895.' Sherlock said, putting his violin down and pointing at the laptop screen.

"Yes. Faulty, can't seem to fix it." John muttered.

"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message." Sherlock grabbed Irene's phone.

He typed in the supposed code, but the angry beeping of the phone told him he was wrong.

"Just faulty."

"Right." John said, "Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit."

There was no response from Sherlock, who returned instead to playing his violin. John tapped me on the shoulder and lightly waved me into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was.

"Listen, has he ever had any kind of girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" John asked her.

"I don't know." She told him.

"How can we not know?"

"He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" He laughed lightly.

"Right. See you." He said, nodding to us slightly before walking out.

Mrs. Hudson and I kept looking at him.

"I'm worried about him, Mrs. Hudson." I told her.

"I am too dear," She replied.

"It's heartbreaking to see him like this. It's like everything's been kicked out of him."

"It'll get better. All hearts mend," she told me.

Sherlock, out of nowhere, put his violin down and grabbed his coat, walking out of the door wordlessly.

"Sherlock," I called after him, but the slamming front door was the only response I got.

I turned back to Mrs. Hudson, who shrugged in response.

"Listen, dear, now that the boys are out I want to do a little cleaning. Do you want me to do your room as well?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you don't have to…"

"Well, I'll just do it anyways," she said with a sweet smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I hugged her. "I'm going to be at Speedy's if you need me, okay?"

"Sure, dear."

I sat at Speedy's, sketching new designed and drinking god knows how many cups of tea. It had probably been over an hour when my phone rang. Sherlock was calling.

"Sherlock, are you okay? You never call when you can text."

"I followed John today." Was all he said.

"As opposed to – "

"She's alive."

"Irene?"

"Yes. And John didn't even ask her how, or why, or what the hell was going on. He just gave her an order. To tell me she was alive. Why would he do that?"

"Because John knows how you are. How you think. And while you may not be in love with her, John and I knew you were heartbroken nonetheless."

"So were you."

"So was I what?"

"Heartbroken."

"What makes you say that?"

"You didn't like seeing me sad."

"I don't think anyone liked seeing you sad."

"Yes, but you especially. Why is that?"

I just gave him a sad smile, even though he couldn't see me.

"It's not for a lady to tell."

"Are you at home?"

"No, I'm in Speedy's. Mrs. Hudson is cleaning today and I didn't want my head fuddled with the fumes. Why?"

"Because I'm at the front door. Someone broke in. Stay there."

"What?" I yelled into phone, startling a few of the patrons, but he had hung up.

I sat there, a million scenarios running through my head, all of them ending in the worst possible way. My thoughts easing only slightly when my text alert went off.

**Come up. Need your rope skills. SH**

I bolted out of the store and up to Sherlock's flat. I saw Neilson unconscious on the floor and Sherlock kneeling by a rather shaken Mrs. Hudson. I rushed over and knelt beside her.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you okay," I turned to Sherlock. "What did he do to her?"

"Roughed her up a bit, trying to find the phone." He replied. "Doesn't matter, where's your rope?"

"I don't have rope, but anyways it doesn't matter. He knows every knot I can make and how to untie them in three seconds flat. No, we need duct tape."

Sherlock nodded and got up to get some.

"And bring enough for his mouth," I called after him.

I helped Mrs. Hudson over to the couch as Sherlock walked in. We lifted Neilson off the floor and sat him in the chair. Sherlock took the gun from him and put it on the chair. We duct taped him to the chair and his mouth shut. When he came to, Sherlock immediately punched him in the face.

"That's for the door." Sherlock said.

"Imagine what it'll feel like when he gets to repaying you for hurting Mrs. Hudson," I told him, twirling a set of platinum coated brass knuckles. "Remember when you gave me these? My 16th birthday. Got them engraved and everything. You taught me how to throw my first punch with them." I got up and stood in front of him. "You want to see how much I've improved?"

I reared back, nailing him in jaw with a swift right hook.

"If you breathe a word of this to my dad I'll let him know you were going to carpet the floor with the inside of my head. Over a phone. And you know my dad; it doesn't matter if the key to saving the world was on that phone. I'm his little girl. He'd hunt you down and rip the still beating heart out of your chest. Might want to think about that."

I turned to Sherlock.

"He's all yours. You can use these if you want." I said, handing him the brass knuckles.

"Don't mind if I do."

By the time Sherlock was done with him, he was well and truly bloody. I leaned against the table as he sat down and got on the phone to call Lestrade. As he put the phone to his ear, John walked in.

"Jeez, what the hell is happening?" John asked, seeing the bloody Neilson taped to the chair.

"Mrs. Hudson has been attacked by an American; I'm restoring balance to the universe." Sherlock informed him.

"Mrs. Hudson. My God, are you all right?" John said worriedly as he sat next to her. "Jesus, what have they done to you?"

"Oh, I'm just being so silly." She told him.

"Downstairs," Sherlock told him, standing up. "Take her downstairs and look after her."

"I'm fine." She told John, standing up anyways.

"It's alright, I'll have a look at it," John told her.

"I'm fine." She repeated as she walked out of the room.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" John asked Sherlock.

"I expect so, now go." He said sharply, directing his attention to the phone. "Lestrade? We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no, no, no, we're fine. No, it's the burglar, he's got himself rather badly injured. Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung...He fell out of a window."

I grinned evilly as I looked over at Neilson, who responded with a 'you've got to be kidding me' expression. We heaved him out of the chair, removing the duct tape from only the chair to keep his bindings intact. He struggled as I opened the window and struggled even more as we threw him out. He landed with a sharp thunk on Mrs. Hudson's trash bins.

"I don't think he's learned his lesson, yet. What do you think, Sherlock?"

"I think you're absolutely right."

"And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?" Lestrade asked Sherlock as they wheeled Neilson away onto the ambulance.

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count." Sherlock informed him.

John and I waited with Mrs. Hudson in her flat while Sherlock was out talking to Lestrade. He had calmed down considerably, but still seemed shaken.

"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John told Sherlock as he walked back in. "We need to look after her."

"No... She's fine."

"No, she's not, look at her." John stressed. "She's got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can stay with her sister, doctor's orders."

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock said, biting into a biscuit he got out of Mrs. Hudson's fridge

"She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some stupid camera-phone - where is it anyway?"

"Safest place I know."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, removing the phone from her top. "You left it in the pocket of your second best dressing gown, you clot! I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking the phone. "Shame on you, John Watson."

"Shame on me? "

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall." He said, hugging her to him.

I smiled. For all the times that Sherlock could be distant and confusing, the small moments of warmth always made up for it.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! Please keep them coming! I'm loving your reactions to the Diana/Moriarty scenes!**

* * *

Sherlock and John weren't in their flat the next day when I came up. I heard a window open in the kitchen and saw Irene crawling through it when I walked in. When she my steps behind her, she turned around sharply, ready to attack.

"Whoa, down girl," I said, holding my hands up. "It's just me."

"Oh," was all she replied.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She looked different without makeup on. She was still beautiful, but she looked different now, as if she hadn't slept well if at all.

"I'm fine. Would he mind?" She asked, gesturing to Sherlock's door.

"I doubt it," I replied, walking in and turning down the sheets for her. "He hardly sleeps anyways."

She got in the bed and I pulled the covers over her.

"Do you need anything?" I asked. She just shook her head. "Okay, well I'm going to be in the living room, so yell if you need me."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" She asked as I made my way to the door.

"You faked your death and Sherlock has your phone. Now that you're not dead anymore you don't have any protection. My guess is you've been hiding for your life. I can't imagine what you've gone through."

"Thank you," she said, laying down and closing her eyes.

I shut the door quietly behind me and walked into the living room, picking up a random book and reading it. I must have lost track of the time because the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the book and Sherlock had come home. He paused when he entered the flat, sniffing slightly.

"Sherlock, there's – "

"Shh," he cut me off, sniffing again.

"But, I – mmf." He had clamped his hand over my mouth, silencing me.

He sniffed again, tracking the smell to the window Irene had come through. He sniffed again, following the smell towards his room and the front door closed.

"Hey, Sherlock..." John called as he walked down the stairs.

"We have a client." Sherlock told us as he looked through his open door.

"Which is what I was trying to tell you," I responded sharply, standing next to him.

"What, in your bedroom?" John asked as he came up to the door, looking in and seeing Irene asleep.

"You knew?" Sherlock asked me.

"I caught her as she was coming in," I started shooing them out. "Come on, she's sleeping."

"In my room," Sherlock protested.

"You don't even use it anyways."

I forced the boys to wait until Irene had woken up. Poor thing needed every bit of sleep she could get. When she did appear, she was wearing Sherlock's robe. She sat across from me in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock and John were seated in the table chairs.

"So, who's after you?" Sherlock asked.

"People who want to kill me." She replied cryptically.

"Who's that?"

"Killers."

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific." John said.

"So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them?" Sherlock asked.

"It worked for a while." She returned.

"Except you let John know you're alive, therefore me."

"I knew you'd keep my secret."

"You couldn't."

"But you did, didn't you? Where's my camera-phone?"

"It's not here. We're not stupid." John replied.

"What have you done with it? If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you." She informed us.

"Then they'll know I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Sherlock replied coolly.

"I need it."

"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" John asked. "Molly Hooper, she could collect it, take it to Barts. Then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe, one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."

"Very good, John, excellent plan, full of intelligent precautions."

"Thank you." John pulled out his phone. "So why don't I, for fu – "

Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket, irritating John a bit.

"So, what do you keep on here? In general, I mean?"

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."

"What, for blackmail?" John asked.

"For protection. I make my way in the world, I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"So how do you acquire this information?"

"I told you - I misbehave."

"But misbehaving got you something more dangerous than protective." I stated. She nodded. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes...but I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me." Sherlock requested.

She held her hand out expectantly. Sherlock moved it out of her reach.

"The passcode." He demanded.

She didn't move. Reluctantly, he handed the phone over. She typed in the passcode, but the error beep sounded.

"It's not working." She stated.

"No, because it's a duplicate I had made into which you just entered the numbers 1058." Sherlock told her, taking the real phone out from the seat in his chair. "I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that, but thanks, anyway."

Sherlock typed the number in, but again the error beep was heard again.

"I told you that camera-phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand." She told him.

"Oh, you're rather good." He replied.

"You're not so bad."

"Hamish." John interjected, slightly uncomfortable. "John Hamish Watson, just if you were looking for baby names."

I snorted. This was getting slightly ridiculous.

"There was a man, an MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know but I photographed it - he was a bit tied up at the time." She handed Sherlock the phone. "It's a bit small on that screen, can you read it?"

"Yes." He replied.

"Code, obviously." She continued. "I had one of the country's best cryptographers take a look, though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out. What can you do, Mr. Holmes? Go on, impress a girl."

She leaned down, kissing Sherlock lightly on the cheek. As soon as her lips left his cheek, he began to speak rapidly.

"There's a margin for error, but I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6.30 for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world, I'm not sure how, but give me a moment, I've only been on the case eight seconds."

We looked at him, stunned.

"Oh, come on, it's not code, these are seat allocations on a passenger jet." He turned the phone towards John, I got up and leaned over him to look. "Look, no 'I' because it can be mistaken for one. No letters past 'K' - the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo's wide enough for a letter 'K' or rows past 55, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row 13 which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number, '007', eliminates a few more. Assuming a British point of origin which would be logical because of the original source, and assuming from the increase of pressure on you that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6.30 to Baltimore tomorrow from Heathrow Airport." He turned to Irene. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing, John's expressed that in every possible variant available in English language."

"I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice." She told him plainly.

I raised my eyebrow, staring at the two.

"John, can you check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?" Sherlock asked John.

"I'm on it, yeah." He replied.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life." Sherlock told Irene.

"Twice."

"Yeah, you're right," John said, looking up from his computer. "Flight double 'o' seven."

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked him.

"You're right."

"No, what did you say after that?"

"Double 'o' seven, flight double 'o' seven."

"Double 'o' seven, double 'o' seven...something, double 'o' seven...what?" Sherlock repeated, racking his brain for whatever couldn't come to him. "Double 'o' seven, double 'o' seven, what? What, something, what?"

While Sherlock was muttering to himself and trying to remember what was evading him, I noticed Irene sending a text behind her back. From what I could see, it was the information Sherlock had just told her, but I couldn't see who the recipient was without actually walking over to the phone. She did, however, looked guilty after she did so. I pursed my lips, my observation going unnoticed by her as her eyes were trained on Sherlock.

I looked back to him; he had taken a seat, falling deep into his mind. I sighed.

"How long do you think he's going to be out this time?" I asked John.  
"No idea. Never can tell."

"What do you mean?" Irene asked.

"He'll zone out for hours before coming to, usually starting to speak mid-sentence to Diana or me."

"Usually John, since he lives here." I finished.

John looked at Sherlock, then back to us.

"I'm going to go out, text me if important things happen."

"Got it." I told him as he grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs.

"Yeah, I'll leave you to it. I doubt he'll say anything for a while," I told her, heading towards the door. I paused, turning back to her. "By the way, I know about the text you just sent."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Irene, don't play dumb. It's not becoming of you." I raised my hands in defense. "Look, I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. Just wanted to tell you to be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"I'm sure you are," I continued. "But this game you're playing is a dangerous one. Don't be on the losing side."

I left the room, walking down the stairs to my flat. I don't know why Irene had sent that text, but the look on her face showed clearly that she regretted it. That could only mean she had to send it rather than wanted to. But why? And to whom?

My thoughts were interrupted by my text alert.

**Come out with me. I feel like celebrating. – JM**

**Celebrating what? What little crime did you commit this time? – DR**

**Oh, Diana. Nothing about me is little. – JM**

**Penis joke. How clever. Still didn't tell me what you're celebrating. – DR**

**I'm celebrating life and how great it is. – JM**

**Somehow I don't think that's actually it. – DR**

**Just come out. You know I can promise a good time. – JM**

**And I've always made good on my promises before. – JM**

**Sorry, but no. – DR**

**Spoil sport. – JM**

**Guess you should just give up on me. – DR**

**You know I could never do that. – JM**

Little more than an hour had passed since Moriarty had last sent me a text. I was in the middle of sketching new designs, but the text alert from my phone startled me, causing my to slash a blue line across the paper.

**Still feel like celebrating. Wish you were here. – JM**

**Oh? And why's that? – DR**

**You know why. – JM**

**But I want you to tell me. – DR**

**I already have. – JM**

**You just don't listen well, do you? – JM**

**Perhaps. Or maybe you don't speak clear enough. – DR**

**Shall I send a car for you? – JM**

I heard a knock on the front door to the building.

"You've got to be kidding me."

I got to the front door just as Mrs. Hudson was turning the knob. I opened my mouth to shout for her to stop, but the words got stuck in my mouth as I saw who was standing behind it. It was the same man that had shown up to take Sherlock and me to Buckingham Palace. My eyebrows furrowed. What was he doing here?

"We're here to collect Mr. Holmes," the man said.

"Oh, he's upstairs," Mrs. Hudson said, leading me men upstairs.

"Ms. Remus," the man nodded an acknowledgment at me.

"Mhm," I replied, pursing my lips but following them anyways.

"Sherlock, this man was at the door, is the bell still not working?" Mrs. Hudson said as she walked in the living room. "He shot it." She told the man.

"Have you come to take me away again?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Well, I decline."

"I don't think you do." The man said, taking an envelope out of his breast pocket and handing it to him.

Sherlock snatched it away from him and took out the contents. Plane tickets. Sherlock looked from the tickets to the man, his eyes narrowing slightly before grabbing his coat and leaving with the man. Mrs. Hudson gave a small huff before heading downstairs as well. I remained, leaning against the doorframe, smiling a knowing smile at Irene.

"What?" She asked.

I merely continued smiling.

"So you've figured out my little secret, haven't you?"

"I had a hunch. Now it's quite clear that you _do_ have feelings for Sherlock, beyond just wanting to bang his brains out, that is."

"I could accuse you of the same thing."

"And we'd both be right." I said, sitting on the couch.

Irene looked at me, and smiled softly.

"He cares about you too," she admitted.

I looked at her, rather shocked.

"He told you that?"

"He didn't, but I can tell by the way he looks at you."

"Oh," I said lamely. This was the second time someone had told me they could tell Sherlock cared by the way he looked at me, but I could never see it. "Well, he cares about you, although I think he'd care about you more if he wasn't so willing to throw you to the wolves if he needed."

She chuckled as she sat next to me. "He probably feels that way because I'd do the same thing to him."

"You might have already. The text."

She was silent.

"It's okay, the look on your face after you sent it was enough to let anyone know you regretted it."

There was a short pause between us.

"Look at us." She mused.

"Holmosexuals. The pair of us."

We shared a quiet laugh.

"You two could actually work," she told me. "He and I, it's a fucked up relationship that would end up with one of us dead, but you two aren't nearly as dysfunctional."

"I guess."

She sighed and stood up, making her way to the door.

"You're leaving?" I asked.

"I have a meeting."

She started towards the door, but stopped and turned back to me.

"Diana, be careful."

"What do you mean?"

"You know Moriarty?"

"What about him?" I asked warily.

"He – he's planning something. And I think he intends to involve you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm already involved."

"Do you know what he's planning?"

"No. All I know is that he's planning something big."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Believe it or not, I have some respect for you. I neither want to kill you nor shag you, but your company isn't bad. I like you."

"Oh, thank you."

"Promise me you'll be careful?"

"I'll try my best."

I watched her leave, wondering if this was the last we'd hear from her. I took out my phone, Irene's words still ringing in my ears.

**Just had a lovely chat with Irene Adler. – DR**

**Oh, what about? – JM**

**You. – DR**

**We promised not to lie to each other, Jim. – DR**

**I never lied to you. I always keep my promises. – JM**

**She seems to think you're planning to involve me in what you're planning. And she's pretty convinced seeing as how she's already involved. – DR**

**I asked you not to drag me into this. – DR**

**And I'm not. – JM**

**Not directly, at least. – JM**

**So you did lie. – DR**

**NO. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise you. – JM**

**How can I believe you? – DR**

**Try. – JM**

I threw my phone aside, not knowing how to deal with the barrage of thoughts stampeding through my mind. I didn't know what to think or how to feel about this.

If he was truly playing mid-games with me, he was certainly getting a lot better at them.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: WARNING WARNING WARNING! This chapter contains the content that earned this story an M rating. I made it so tame this time and if I have one next time it'll be its own separate chapter. If you are uncomfortable, feel free to skip that part. I won't mark it because it'll mess up continuity, but if you'd rather skip this chapter entirely, you won't be missing much (but I recommend going to the end to see some important text messages). **

**On another note, thank you for the reviews! You guys seem to love the Diana/Moriarty interactions, which is great! I'm probably going to start writing the alternate storyline, but I won't post it for a while so you won't be forced to wait a millennia between chapters.**

**Avis11:**** The fall is going to be the same, but there's more motivation for Moriarty's decision about Sherlock's fate. You'll get to see it in future chapters.**

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I sat there in Sherlock's chair by the slowly dying fire, my head resting on the back of the chair as I stared at the ceiling. Just waiting, not looking at anything, thoughts milling around in my brain. I had been too busy worrying about whether or not Moriarty had lied to me that I completely missed the part where Irene told me she was working with him. This whole thing was messing with my head and made me skip over so many important things.

Irene was working with Moriarty.

Meaning she was using Sherlock, regardless of having developed feelings for him.

She seduced him into cracking the code, and texted Moriarty to let him know.

Sherlock was given plane tickets to the flight connected to the code.

I sighed as I rubbed my temples. I couldn't help but think this was somehow connected to Mycroft. He had been so insistent that Sherlock forget about Irene. But how? There were too many missing pieces, and I couldn't make any connections without them.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It would either be John or Sherlock, although I hoped it was Sherlock. Sure enough I saw him step through the open door, his eyebrows furrowing slightly when he saw me seated in his chair.

"Why are you still here?" He asked me slowly.

"She was working with him, wasn't she?" I answered with a question of my own. "Irene, I mean. She was working with Moriarty."

"How – "

"Something she said. It reminded me of him. Then I started putting the pieces together. Why Mycroft was so insistent you forget her. Why she came to you specifically for the code." I looked up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you cared about her."

"I do –"

"Don't," I cut him off. "Don't lie to me Sherlock. Please, don't. I saw how you looked at her. You started to care for her."

"I –"

"And you know, it's funny. I've been told that people can tell you care for me because you look at me differently. Hell, even Irene told me. You kissed me, and then gave me some story about how you were married to your work. Irene comes along, practically throws herself at you and still you keep the walls up. What is it going to take for you to finally stop being scared?"

"What could I possibly be scared of?"

I got up, standing in front of him, mere inches from his face.

"Feeling something. Emotions aren't logical and you desperately cling to logic because it's easier than actually feeling something. You may be a brilliant man but deep inside you're a scared little boy who doesn't know how to cope with love. You're terrified of feeling something."

"You think you know everything, don't you?"

"No, that's your job."

"Well, let me tell you something. I don't need to feel anything. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"This isn't a game, Sherlock."

"Isn't it?"

I looked at him, really looked at him, breathed out a humorless laugh. "It must have really hurt."

"What did?"

"Finding out she betrayed you. You opened up just once, ever so slightly, and it backfired on you."

He stiffened, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Are you worried I'm going to do that?" I asked softly, not taking my eyes off him.

He didn't answer, but kept his eye locked on mine.

"Sherlock, please, tell me."

Still no answer, his eyes beginning to look away.

"Sher – "

"Yes." He cut me off, his voice cracking slightly.

"I promise you I won't," I told him sincerely. "No matter what happens, no matter who tries to convince me otherwise I'm not going to turn against you."

"Why?"

"You know why."

This was it. I had all but spelled out for Sherlock how I felt. It was all I could do at the moment; I had no idea how he would react or respond. And at the current moment, he wasn't doing much of anything. He was just looking at me, his expression a mixture of confusion, shock and appreciation. I just kept looking at him, expecting him to make a move, but he remained frozen in his spot.

"Oh, fuck it," I said as I pulled him in for a kiss.

I threaded my hands through the hair on the nape of his neck, preventing another escape from him. But, to my surprise, he didn't resist. That being said, he also didn't respond that much. Frustrated, I pushed him into the wall and deepened the kiss. Finally, he reacted. His arms looped around my waist and pulled me in closer. We stood there, lost in our own world as our lips moved in rhythm with each other. I prayed John wouldn't walk in and ruin the moment. If that happened, I didn't think I could get Sherlock into this situation ever again if he did.

Sherlock pulled away and I swore to God if he just walked off again I'd scream. But instead, he lifted a hand and swept stray bits of my hair out of my face.

"Would you," he began, but cut himself off, embarrassed.

"Go on," I said softly in encouragement.

"Would you stay with me tonight? Just, to sleep I mean." He clarified.

I smiled. "Of course."

It was a little weird, I admit, to be half naked in bed with a man I had just been making out with that now refused to touch me. I was surprised when he stripped down to his 'pants' as I now had to remember to call them. But what surprised me more was his reaction when I took off my jeans and over shirt, surreptitiously taking off y bra and hiding it under my shirt so as not to embarrass Sherlock any more than necessary. It was like he was fighting with himself to run away and jump my bones right there. I had to smile, though. It was rather flattering. But lying in bed with him, both of us on our backs and not touching each other, was starting to put a damped on the small ego trip it had given me. I was about to give up and go back to my own bed, when I heard Sherlock give a large puff of air from beside me. I had turned my head to ask what was wrong, but was interrupted by Sherlock rolling on top of me and kissing me fiercely.

Whatever reservations he had before were now gone, as he gripped my hips firmly and positioned himself between them. His hands moved up my sides lightly as he kissed me, leaving goose bumps in their wake from the cold of his hands and the pure sensation it caused. My breathing hitched in my throat as he turned his attention from my mouth to my neck.

"What happened to just sleeping?" I asked, heaving breathing punctuating my words.

"Fuck it," he growled as he bit down gently on the soft flesh.

I gasped at the sensation. Well hello uninhibited Sherlock, welcome to the party. You are free to stay as long as you wanted.

He pulled off that tank top I was wearing with another growl, apparently frustrated with the barrier of clothing. For a guy who acted as if he disliked contact with other human beings he was certainly making a great case for the contrary. My fingernails scraped down his back, causing him to moan into my mouth. If he was attractive before, he was downright sexy now.

I had never given much thought to Sherlock's sex life before that. He didn't seem the type to have one night stands, and if this was his first time I could only imagine how quickly he'd learn.

And boy did he learn quickly.

Sherlock made torturous love to me that night. It was torturous only because he kept me wanting more. I wanted him deeper. I wanted him faster. I wanted him harder. I wanted more of him. I wanted him in every which way possible. Time and time again he'd build me up and then teeter me on the edge before allowing me to release. With each orgasm I thought I had reached my peak, but the next one that followed was even stronger. Breathing hard, still entangled together in a sweaty heap and breathing heavily, we were guided off to sleep as the adrenaline melted out of us.

John sat at the table in the living room of his flat, drinking his morning coffee and reading the newspaper. He hadn't seen Sherlock or Diana since last night. When he had come home and found neither in the living room, nor Irene either, he had gotten slightly worried. But when he heard the muffled noises coming from Sherlock's room he felt slightly better, but ten times more confused. Sherlock, the anti-romantic and anti-relationship man he lived with, was having sex with a woman he half hoped was Diana.

He didn't really have much say in who Sherlock slept with, though he didn't really think he'd ever have the chance to say anything. He didn't really have much against Irene, and there was obvious attraction between Sherlock and her, but if John were to choose who he'd rather see his friend with, it would be Diana every time. John waited with baited breath to see who walked out of the room. After about five more minutes, the door opened and Diana walked out, wearing one of Sherlock's shirts with her own clothes tucked under her arm.

She saw John sitting at the table, a knowing grin on his face.

"Not a fucking word," she threatened playfully.

John held his hands up in surrender, "I wasn't going to say anything."

"Liar," she smiled.

"Well?" John asked expectantly.

"Well what?"

"Well, how did it happen?"

"Can I get changed first?" She asked, laughing.

"Oh, right, yeah."

She laughed as she descended the stairs to her flat, emerging later in fresh clothes, a white slip of paper in her hand.

"Well?" John repeated when she returned.

"Well, Sherlock got called off to the flight connected to the code he worked out, found out that was working with Moriarty and had used Sherlock. Then when he came back here, we...well, yeah."

"Wait, Irene was working with Moriarty?"

"Yup."

John was even more glad it had been Diana and not Irene. "And then you two…"

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hands what he meant.

"Yes, John. Sherlock and I had sex."

John blew out a breath of shock. "Well, that's a new one."

"Tell me about it."

"So, where is he now?" John started to grin, "is he still sleeping after last night?"

Diana laughed as she held out the slip of paper. "No, he's gone after another case. Didn't write down where it was, but that he'd be gone for a few days."

"Are you okay with that?" John asked gently.

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, you two just…and then he left, so…"

She laughed again, "I doubt anything could distract Sherlock from a case for long."

John looked at her funny; it wasn't a normal reaction from a person.

"What?" She asked when she noticed his expression.

"Nothing, you two are just really good for each other." He replied, shaking his head slightly as he went back to reading his newspaper.

/

Moriarty stared at his phone. He wanted to call her.

He didn't want to call her.

What he really wanted was to throw his phone across the room.

He was pissed.

Why the hell did it matter to him what she thought of him? Whether or not she trusted him. Why was he becoming so desperate to have her on his side?

He refused to answer the questions running through his mind, though the answers were leeching through the cracks in his walls.

He was falling for her.

He had only started to tail her when he realized Sherlock was at least mildly interested in her. She was just going to be another tool for Moriarty to use in his game. And then she dragged him off in Barts and saw right through his disguise. Everything he tried seemed to become transparent in front of her.

It pissed him off and turned him on all at the same time.

She was just an ordinary girl. She wasn't special.

But everything about her screamed out for him to take. Her cherry red hair and her green grey eyes and that really nice ass and DAMMIT!

He didn't like that she refused to tell him what she knew about Sherlock. Sure, he needed the information for his plan, but he mostly disliked it because it meant she was still on Sherlock's side.

Sherlock had always been somewhat of a fly in the ointment where Moriarty's business was concerned, but with Diana in the mix Moriarty began to hate Sherlock more than he thought possible.

He needed to get the information on Sherlock some other way. With him out of the way Moriarty's web could grow and he would finally get Diana.

A plan began to hatch in Moriarty's mind. Perhaps it was time to get "caught" by Mycroft. He would certainly talk if it was the only way to get Moriarty to talk. He just had to figure out how to be caught without making it obvious. That itself would take lots of planning.

/

It was two months after Sherlock had returned from abroad. He wouldn't speak of where he'd been, or what kind of case he had; only that it was 'closed'. After a while, John and I gave up on asking. John had gone out earlier that day, and Sherlock and I had some…alone time…before he decided he wanted to look at something in the microscope. I stopped listening after the first quarto-syllabic word. He had popped in the second slide, I was sitting on the table with my feet propped on the counter top, when we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Clearly you've got news. If it's about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Did nobody notice the earring?" Sherlock said to the owner of the footsteps, not looking up from his work.

"Hi." John said as he stepped into the kitchen, holding a large clear packet full of papers. "Er no, it's, um...it's about Irene Adler."

"Well?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the microscope. "Something happened? Has she come back?"

"No, she's...I bumped into Mycroft downstairs, he had to take a call."

"Is she back in London?" Sherlock asked, getting up from his seat.

"No...she's, er..." John drew in a sharp breath. "She's in America."

"America?"

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text from Irene. How had she gotten my number?

**I'm not in America. - IA**

"Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently." John told us. "Don't know how she swung it, but...well, you know."

"I know what?"

"You won't be able to see her again."

"Why would I want to see her again?"

"Didn't say you did."

I typed a reply as swiftly and secretly as I could.

**Then where are you? – DR **

**According to the records of Bart's Morgue, I'm dead. – IA **

**Again? – DR **

"Is that her file?" Sherlock asked, going back to his seat.

"Yes, I was going to take it back to Mycroft. Do you want to..." John asked, offering the packet he was holding.

"No."

"Listen, actually..."

"But I will have the camera-phone though." Sherlock said, holding his hand out expectantly.

**Does Sherlock know? That you're dead, I mean. – DR **

"There's nothing on it anymore, it's been stripped..." John started.

"I know, but I...I'll still have it."

**He should; he helped 'kill' me. - IA**

"I've got to give this back to Mycroft, you can't keep it." John told him, but he didn't lower his hand. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft, it's the government's now..."

"Please."

**So…he knows you're officially alive. – DR **

**He does. If you want to catch him off guard ask him how Karachi was. Though I'm only checking in to make sure he's done what I've told him. – IA **

**Oh? What's that? – DR **

John sighed, but took the phone out and handed it to Sherlock.

"Thank you."

Well, I'd better take this back.

Yes.

John started to leave, but stopped himself and turned back. "Did she ever text you again, after all that?"

"Once, a few months ago."

"What did she say?"

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

**The last words I said to him, before I left for hiding, were: 'Be nice to her.' – IA **

John went to say something, but thought better of it, instead walking back downstairs to give Mycroft the file. As soon as he was out of sight Sherlock raised his head and gazed across the room for a moment, before he reaches down to his own phone on the table and picking it up, scrolling through what I assumed were the texts Irene sent him. He got up and began to stroll towards the window.

**Be nice? What does that mean? – DR **

**Basically to not be Sherlock to you. He can't run from feeling anything forever. – IA **

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he turned away from staring at the window, taking Irene's camera phone from his pocket. He tossed it into the air, looking at it momentarily after catching it.

"The Woman." I heard him murmur to himself.

He opened the top drawer of the cabinet next to the living room table and put the phone into it.

"_The_ Woman." I heard him repeat.

"_The_ Woman?" I asked, echoing the stress he put on the word, a smile forming on my face. "Should I be jealous, Mr. Holmes?"

He chuckled. "Jealous? No, no, no, no. Inspired, maybe."

"Oh, ho, is that it?" I returned, laughing slightly.

Sherlock just chortled in response.

I kept smiling at him, though it slowly slipped into a smirk, "So, what happened in Karachi?"

The smile on his face dropped, replaced with utter shock and confusion.

"What?" He asked.

I held up my phone, giving it a slight wave. "You're not the only one Irene texts."

His eyes narrowed playfully, "You naughty little thing."

In the amount of time it took for him to stride over to me, I was able to type a quick text to Irene.

**Don't worry, he can't run if he's busy in bed. – DR **

And was only able to see the reply briefly before Sherlock wrenched the phone out of my hand and threw me on the bed.

**You lucky little minx. - IA**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: I should have the first chapter of my Moriarty story up soonish. Hopefully. Don't quote me on that, though.**

**I'm seriously loving your reviews and comments! Please keep posting them; they make my day!**

**unicornmagik: Oh gosh, please study! Haha, I would hate if I made you fail (even though that's actually a really great compliment). I'm trying to keep Moriarty as BBC-canon as possible, but it's so hard because Andrew Scott is just so darn CUTE!  
**

* * *

It had been a week since Sherlock reclaimed Irene's phone. We decided it would be better for John to remain blissfully unaware of her actual fate. The less people that knew about it, the better. However, the peaceful London brought nothing but discord into our flat. Sherlock was growing desperate without a case, and I could only distract him with sex so many times before he caught on.

One such instance was when John and I were sitting in their living room, just chatting, as he typed on his laptop. Sherlock burst into the room, almost completely covered in blood, and slammed the tail end of a harpoon on the ground.

"Well, that was tedious." He hissed.

"You went on the Tube like that?" John asked incredulously.

"None of the cabs would take me." He replied irritated as he walked back to his room.

"I wonder why," I muttered to John.

"I heard that!" Sherlock yelled.

"You were meant to!"

When he finally reemerged from his room, blood-free and wearing fresh clothes, he reclaimed his harpoon and began pacing around the room. John and I exchanged glances; we knew exactly what that meant. We each grabbed parts of the newspaper and began to flick though it, looking for anything to distract Sherlock.

"Nothing?" he asked impatiently.

"Military coup in Uganda." I offered

"Hmm." He muttered, turning down the idea.

John began to chuckle as he saw something in his section of the papers.

"Another photo of you with the, er ..."

He pointed to a photograph of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker hat. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and made a noise of disapproval. We kept looking through the newspapers.

"Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle."

"Nothing of importance?" Sherlock was getting angry. He slammed the end of the harpoon down, emitting what I could only describe as a roar of frustration. "Oh, God!"

He turned his gaze to John.

"John, I need some. Get me some."

"No." John replied calmly.

"Get me some." Sherlock repeated with more intensity.

"No." John said louder, pointing at Sherlock. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what."

Sherlock leaned the harpoon against the table, starting to flounce with irritation.

" Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember?" I added. "No-one within a two mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?"

John cleared his throat pointedly. It was his idea to get Sherlock off the cigarettes and nicotine patches. However, it was apparently doing more harm than good because Sherlock was becoming unbearable.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled towards the door.

He began hurling paperwork off the table as he continued to search desperately for any kind of nicotine product.

"Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now."

"Tell me where they are. Please. Tell me." Sherlock pleaded in his own way, still hurling papers around.

When John remained silent, Sherlock straightens up and then turned to me, his eyes softening into a puppy-dog gaze. He pouted a few moments before speaking.

"Please." He practically whimpered.

"Don't give in," John encouraged.

"I'm not going to give in," I retorted. "Sorry, but I can't help you."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." He said, his face slipping back to his normal expression.

We laughed. He was ridiculous.

"Oh, it was worth a try."

He looked around the room before latching his gaze on the fireplace. Whatever flash of inspiration he had sent him diving onto the floor in front of the fireplace. He began rummaging around the discarded papers and managed to unearth a slipper, but nothing that interested him. He threw the slipper over his head as Mrs. Hudson came into the room.

"Yoohoo," She called happily, until she saw the mess within the room.

"My secret supply; what have you done with my secret supply?" He demanded, not even looking up.

"Eh?" She asked, confused.

"Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things!" She looked around the room. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing."

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper." Sherlock said as he stood up.

"I'm not." She replied.

Sherlock growled in frustration as he stomped back over to the harpoon and picked it up again. Mrs. Hudson looked down at John and me, John mimed for her to offer Sherlock a drink.

"How about a nice cuppa, and perhaps you could put away your harpoon." She said to Sherlock as he grabbed the harpoon again.

"I need something stronger than tea. Seven per cent stronger."

He glared out the window before whipping back towards, Mrs. Hudson, aiming the harpoon at her. Naturally, she flinched as he did so.

"You've been to see Mr. Chatterjee again." Sherlock said quickly, beginning to study her.

"Pardon?"

" Sandwich shop. That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve." He said, pointing it out with the harpoon tip. "You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

"Sherlock ..." John warned.

"Thumbnail, tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?" He sniffed deeply, drawing the harpoon away from her. "Mmm, Kasbah Nights. Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."

"Please." Mrs. Hudson interjected, exasperated.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about."

"Sherlock!" John and I chastised in near unison.

"Well, nobody except me." Sherlock finished.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't." Mrs. Hudson replied, clearly upset.

She stormed out of the flat, slamming the living room door closed as she goes. Sherlock leapt over the back of the chair I was sitting on and perched behind me, like child or an owl. I looked at John incredulously and he slammed his newspaper down.

"What the bloody hell was all that about?" He asked.

"You don't understand." Sherlock replied, beginning to rock back and forth, nudging me with his knees.

"Go after her and apologize." John continued.

"Apologize?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh, John, I envy you so much."

"Yeah, me too," I muttered as I swatted Sherlock's knees, getting up and grabbing a chair at the table and bringing it over to the fireplace. John hesitated after Sherlock's comment. He waited until I sat down to rise to the bait, probably o use me as back-up.

"You envy me?"

"Your mind: it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. I need a case!"

"You've just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!" John exclaimed.

With an exasperated noise, Sherlock leapt up and landed in the seated position on his chair.

"That was this morning!"

He began to fidget wildly, drumming his fingers on the armrests and stomping on the floor.

"When's the next one?" Sherlock asked.

"Is there nothing on the website?" I asked.

Sherlock got up and walked over to the table, picking up his laptop and handing it to John. I leaned over John's shoulder to read along.

"Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock narrated. "I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?"

"Bluebell?" John asked.

"A rabbit, John!" Sherlock replied, irritated.

"Oh."

"Ah, but there's more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous 'like a fairy'..." he pitched the last three words higher to mimic the little girl, "according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He paused, his expression fading into something more intense. "Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

"Wait, are you serious?" I asked.

"It's this, or Cluedo." Sherlock threatened.

"No!" John and I both exclaimed.

John closed the laptop and got up to put it on the table.

"We are never playing that again!" John told him.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"Because no matter how many times you protest otherwise, it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it. That's why." I responded.

"Well, it was the only possible solution."

"It's not in the rules." John replied, sitting back down.

"Then the rules are wrong!"

"Well, we could always send John out while you and I have playtime," I interjected, smirking slightly.

Both John and Sherlock opened their mouths to respond, John wearing a slight expression of embarrassment and Sherlock a contemplative one, but they were both cut off by the doorbell ringing. John held up a finger thoughtfully as Sherlock looked towards the living room door.

"Single ring." John said.

"Maximum pressure just under the half second." Sherlock continued.

"Client." They said simultaneously.

John went down to fetch the person at the door, leaving Sherlock and I alone.

"Disappointed?" I asked, noticing the slight hint in his expression.

"Well, there's always later," he replied, kissing my forehead and sneaking in a pinch on my rear.

"Naughty," I squealed, swatting at him.

He took off the dressing gown he had been wearing and threw on a jacked as we composed ourselves into a professional manner. John walked up with the client, a rather nervous looking man. He had brought along a video that he wanted us to watch. It would apparently help explain why he was here. He sat in John's chair while Sherlock sat in his, and John and I were at the table.

"Dartmoor. It's always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here – something very real?" The presenter said, as the images showed various parts of the town. "Because Dartmoor's also home to one of the government's most secret of operations: the chemical and biological weapons research center which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the Second World War, there've been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments: genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is: are all of them still inside?"

The fottage then turned to Henry being interviewed, a caption at the bottom of the screen labeling him 'Henry Knight, Grimpen resident'.

"I was just a kid. It-it was on the moor." The video version of Henry said as the image cut to a child's drawing of a huge snarling dog with red eyes. The caption said _Henry's drawing (aged 9)._ "It was dark, but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father."

Sherlock sighed and switched off the video, turning to Henry, "What did you see?"

" Oh." Henry pointed to the screen. "I ... I was just about to say."

"Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me." He replied, pulling out a paper napkin and wiping his nose on it.

"In your own time." John said gently.

"But quite quickly." Sherlock interjected.

"Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?" Henry asked, lowering the napkin.

"No."

"It's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful."

"Mmm, not interested. Moving on."

"We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

"Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?"

John and I exchanged a look. Sherlock was in a bad mood and was definitely getting snappy.

"There's a place – it's... it's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow." He paused, but when he got no reply he continued. "That's an ancient name for the Devil."

"So?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Did you see the Devil that night?" John asked.

Henry nodded, his face growing haunted, "Yes. It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes. It got him, tore at him, tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found.?

"Hmm." John looked at Sherlock. "Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous; dog? Wolf?"

"Or a genetic experiment." I muttered, attempting not to smile.

Sherlock and I caught each other's' gaze and had to look away, fearing we'd laugh.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" Henry asked.

"Why, are you joking?" Sherlock asked.

"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville; about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously."

"And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism."

"Yeah ..." John muttered, leaning forward to cut off Sherlock's sarcasm. "Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?"

Henry leaned forward, locking eyes with Sherlock.

"I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny." Henry said, standing up and heading towards the door.

"Because of what happened last night." Sherlock stopped him.

"Why, what happened last night?" John asked,

"How ... how do you know?" Henry stuttered.

"I didn't know; I noticed."

John rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, and expression of 'Oh dear lord, here we go' coming across his face. I just smiled. I actually loved it when he deduced random people, though less so with people we actually knew. Save for Donovan and Anderson; they could suck it.

"You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted." Sherlock said, quick as a flash.

Henry stared at him before glancing to John and me. John sighed and looked away, and I merely shrugged. Hesitantly, Henry sat back in the chair and began rummaging through his pockets.

"How on earth did you notice all that?" He asked.

"It's not important ..." John began.

"Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked." Sherlock cut him off.

"Not now, Sherlock." John scolded slightly.

"Oh please. I've been cooped up in here for ages."

"You're just showing off."

"Of course. I am a show-off. That's what we do." He turned his attention back to Henry. "The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee, the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How did you know it was disappointing?" Henry asked, half-sobbing.

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?" Sherlock shrugged. "The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry just stared at him for a moment, amazed, before shakily replying, "No."

Sherlock smiled smugly as John took a drink from his mug to hide his 'oh bugger it' look. I rolled my eyes, barely containing

"You're right." Henry said, astonished. "You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

"It's my job." Sherlock replied, leaning forward and glaring at Henry. "Now shut up and smoke."

I rolled my eyes at him and John frowned. As Henry tit the roll-up cigarette he had brought with him, John looked at the notes he had taken.

"Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?"

Henry didn't answer as he was taking his first drag on his cigarette. As he exhaled, Sherlock stood up and crept towards him.

"I know. That ... my ..."

He trailed off as Sherlock leaned into the smoke drifting up from the cigarette and breathed in deeply. When he had sucked in most of the smoke, he sat down again and breathed out, whining quietly in pleasure.

"That must be a ... quite a trauma." John said, trying to ignore Sherlock. "Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this ..."

We were once again distracted as Henry exhaled another lungful of smoke, Sherlock diving in to suck in the smoke again. John paused until he sat down again.

"...to account for it?"

"That's what Doctor Mortimer says." Henry said, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock.

"Who?" John asked.

"His therapist." Sherlock said as Henry answered the same simultaneously. "Obviously." He continued.

"Louise Mortimer." Henry explained. "She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons."

"And what happened when you went back to Dewer's Hollow last night, Henry? You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?" Sherlock asked.

"It's a strange place, the Hollow." Henry began, darkly. "Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, if I wanted poetry, I'd read John's emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier." John rolled his eyes.

"What did you see?" Sherlock pressed.

"Footprints – on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, sighing in exasperation.

"Man's or a woman's?" John asked.

"Neither." Henry began. "They were ..."

"Is that it?" Sherlock interrupted. "Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?"

"Yes, but they were ..."

"No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins." Sherlock cut him off again. "Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

"No, but what about the footprints?" Henry asked.

"Oh, they're probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and waved Henry off to the door. "Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me."

Sherlock stood up, buttoning his jacket, and walked into the kitchen. Henry turned in his seat to look at him.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" He called after him.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning and walking back to the living room

"Say that again." He demanded.

"I found the footprints; they were ..."

"No, no, no, your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them."

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic ... hound." Henry repeated slowly.

"I'll take the case." Sherlock told him.

"Sorry, what?" John asked.

"No offense," I told Henry before turning to Sherlock, "but you're not actually serious, are you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead beginning to pace slowly across the living room.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It's very promising." he told Henry.

"No-no-no, sorry, what?" John interjected. "A minute ago, footprints were boring; now they're very promising?"

"It's nothing to do with footprints." Sherlock replied as he stopped pacing. "As ever, John, you weren't listening. Baskerville: ever heard of it?"

"Vaguely. It's very hush-hush."

"Sounds like a good place to start."

"Ah! You'll come down, then?" Henry asked, relieved.

"No, I can't leave London at the moment." Sherlock answered. "Far too busy. Don't worry – putting my best man onto it." He walked over to John and patted his shoulder. "Always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself."

"What are you talking about, you're busy?" John questioned. "You don't have a case! A minute ago you were complaining ..."

"Bluebell, John! I've got Bluebell!" Sherlock interrupted. "The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit! NATO's in uproar." He finished, looking at Henry.

"Oh, sorry, no, you're not coming, then?" Henry asked, confused.

Sherlock donned a regretful, semi-pouting expression that just reeked of sarcasm. John groaned.

"Okay." He said as he stood up. Sherlock grinned as he did so. "Okay."

John walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the skull, taking the packet of cigarettes from underneath it. He turned and tossed the packet across to Sherlock as he put the skull down. Sherlock caught the packet and immediately tossed it over his shoulder.

"I don't need those any more. I'm going to Dartmoor." He walked out of the living room. "You go on ahead, Henry. We'll follow later."

"Er, sorry, so you are coming?" Henry scrambled to his feet.

Sherlock and turned to the back of the room. "Twenty year old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

It was only a half hour later that we were putting our bags in the taxi. I hoped we wouldn't be there for more than a few days, because I had only packed enough clothes for that amount of time. As John put our bags in the trunk and Sherlock held the door open for us, our attention was caught by Mrs. Hudson yelling at Mr. Chatterjee inside Speedy's.

"... cruise together. You had no intention of taking me on it ..." we could hear her yelling faintly.

She threw something at the closed door, bouncing heavily off the glass.

"Oh! Looks like Mrs Hudson finally got to the wife in Doncaster." John mused.

"Mmm. Wait 'til she finds out about the one in Islamabad."

John and I sniggered as the three of us got into the taxi.

"Paddington Station, please." Sherlock instructed the driver.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I'm going to be very honest with you guys...this isn't my favorite episode...so the chapters dealing with it probably are going to a little lackluster. Sorry. I'd still love to read your thoughts, though!**

**Also, I have two possible titles for my Moriarty fic, so let me know which one is your favorite: (1) Through the Richenbach Glass (2) The Devil Wears Westwood**

**Let me know! (And this goes for my non-commenty readers too!)**

* * *

Hours later we were seated in a large black Land Rover jeep, Sherlock as our driver as we made our way to Grimpen Village. We were probably about twenty miles out when he pulled over, dragging John and I out of the car to venture on the moors. Sherlock stood on a large stone outcrop, reminding me greatly of Caspar Friedrich's painting _Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog_, as John and I stood the foot of it consulting a map. John pointed ahead of us at a large array of buildings in the distance.

"There's Baskerville." John said. He turned and pointed behind us. "That's Grimpen Village."

I looked back at the map, checking for the name of the heavily wooded area to the left of the Baskerville complex.

"So that must be ... yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow." I intidacted.

Sherlock pointed to an area in between the complex and the Hollow. "What's that?"

"Hmm?" John hummed as he lifted the binoculars around his neck. "Minefield? Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."

"Clearly." Sherlock agreed.

When we finally arrived in Grimpen Village, we pulled into a parking area in front of the Cross Keys inn. There was a group of tourists lead by a young man walking towards the entrance of the inn's pub. AS we walked by, we could hear him speaking to the group.

"... three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone!" He said. "Don't be strangers, and remember ... stay away from the moor at night if you value your lives!"

Sherlock pulled his overcoat around him as we walked towards the pub, popping the collar. John looked round at him pointedly.

"I'm cold." Sherlock said, attempting nonchalance.

"Oh, let him be," I told John, laughing slightly. "It makes him feel pretty."

"Shush you," Sherlock scolded me, no real anger behind the words.

When we got into the pub, Sherlock immediately began prowling the pub for reasons only known to him. John checked us in at the bar and I ordered some chips, because I was dumb and didn't eat before we left. The manager and barman, who introduced himself as Gary, handed him our keys.

"Eh, sorry we couldn't do a double room for you boys."

"That's fine. We-we're not ..." John attempted to protest.

John saw the smug smile on Gary's face and gave up. I tried not to choke on my laugh.

"There you go." John said, giving him money for his drink and my chips.

"Oh, ta. I'll just get your change."

"Ta."

"Thanks, John." I said to him.

"No problem," he said, his voice slightly trailing off.

I followed his line of sight down to a pile of receipts and invoices which have been punched onto a spike on the bar. The one on top was labeled 'Undershaw Meat Supplies'. Weird, because this was a vegetarian pub. John quickly ripped it from the spike, putting it into his pocket as Gary came back with his change.

"There you go." Gary said as he returned, handing the change to John.

"I couldn't help noticing on the map of the moor, a skull and crossbones." I mentioned to Gary.

"Oh that, aye." He replied vaguely.

"Pirates?" I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Eh, no, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it."

"Oh, right."

"It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there anymore."

"Explosives?" john asked.

"Oh, not just explosives." Gary answered. "Break into that place and – if you're lucky – you just get blown up, so they say ... in case you're planning on a nice wee stroll."

"Ta. I'll remember."

"Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound!" He chuckled. "Did you see that show, that documentary?"

"Quite recently, yeah."

"Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell."

"Have you ever seen it? The hound, I mean." I asked.

"Me? No." He said, pointing out the door where the tour guide was standing, talking on his phone to someone. "Fletcher has. He runs the walks – the Monster Walks for the tourists, you know? He's seen it."

"That's handy for trade." John noted.

Gary turned to a man who, by the way he was dressed, was clearly the inn's cook who has just arrived behind the bar. "I'm just saying we've been rushed off our feet, Billy."

"Yeah. Lots of monster-hunters. Doesn't take much these days. One mention on Twitter and oomph." Billy said, turning to Gary. "We're out of WKD."

I wrinkled my nose at the mention. I had tried WKD only once and it wasn't that pleasant. It was a brand of alcopop that trendy young men usually drank. I'd take battery acid over it any day.

"All right." Gary told him, walking behind the bar.

Billy turned to John. "What with the monster and that ruddy prison, I don't know how we sleep nights. Do you, Gary?"

Gary placed a hand on Billy's shoulder and looks at him affectionately. "Like a baby."

"That's not true." Billy said, looking back at John. "He's a snorer."

"Hey, wheesht!" Gary said, embarrassed, trying to get Billy to stop talking.

"Is yours a snorer?" Billy asked John, clearly implying Sherlock.

"... Got any crisps?" John asked, avoiding the question.

"Nice of you to bring your sister along, though," Billy mused.

I definitely did snort at that. "I'm not his sister, though he should take that as a compliment."

I nudged John, who laughed in embarrassment.

"Yeah, and he's not mine, he's hers," John cleared up, the hint of embarrassment still in his voice.

"Oh," Billy said, nodding.

I shook my head slightly, "Go call Henry."

"Right," John said, walking off and pulling out his phone.

I turned back to Billy. "Boys," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Tell me about it," He agreed.

I followed John out of the pub as he hung up his conversation with Henry. We made our way to Sherlock, who was seated at one of the outside tables, talking to Fletcher.

"I called Henry ..." John started.

"Bet's off, John, sorry." Sherlock said, speaking over him.

"What?" John asked as he and I sat down.

"Bet?" Fletcher asked.

"My plan needs darkness." Sherlock said, looking at his watch and then to the sky. "Reckon we've got another half an hour of light ..."

"Wait, wait. What bet?" Fletcher interjected.

"Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound." Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could." John said, catching on immediately.

Fletcher smiled and pointed to Sherlock. "Well, you're gonna lose your money, mate."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I've seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind – couldn't make much out."

"I see. No witnesses, I suppose."

"No, but ..."

"Never are."

"Wait ..." He pulled up a picture on his phone. "There."

"Is that it? It's not exactly proof, is it?" Sherlock scoffed.

Fletcher showed the photo to John and me, probably hoping for affirmation. In the picture, there was an extremely blurry dark-furred four-legged something but, with the distance and quality of the picture, it was impossible to tell the size – or even the species – of the animal.

"Sorry, John. I win."

He picked up a drink that I didn't even know he had ordered and acted as if he was going to drink from it, although he never did.

"Wait, wait. That's not all." Fletcher interjected. "People don't like going up there, you know – to the Hollow. Gives them a ... bad sort of feeling."

"Ooh! Is it haunted?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, putting the glass down. "Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Nah, don't be stupid, nothing like that, but I reckon there is something out there – something from Baskerville, escaped."

"A clone, a super-dog?" Sherlock sniggered.

"Maybe. God knows what they've been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could spit."

"Is that the best you've got?" Sherlock asked, indicating the picture with a nod of his head.

Fletcher hesitated for moment, bust continued in a low voice, "I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishin' but he never showed up – well, not 'til late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. _I've seen things today, Fletch_, he said, _that I never wanna see again. Terrible things_. He'd been sent to some secret Army place – Porton Down, maybe, maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else." He leaned closer. "In the labs there – the really secret labs, he said he'd seen ... terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs ..." He reached into his bag and pulls something out to show us. "... dogs the size of horses."

He was holding a concrete cast of a dog's paw print, but the print was abnormally large, at least six inches long from the tip of the claws to the back of the pad. We stared at it in surprise, and John wasted no time pouncing on his win.

"Er, we did say fifty?"

Fletcher smiled triumphantly as Sherlock took out his wallet and handed John a fifty pound note.

"Ta." John thanked him.

Sherlock got up, obviously sulking, and walked away. John and I finished our drink and chips respectively and followed him.

Sherlock walked us straight for the car, and John and I entered without question. We didn't really want to deal with a sulky Sherlock. By the route we were taking, I assumed we were heading to Baskerville, and I was proven right when I saw the heavily guarded gates as we approached. There were many military personnel guarding the place, walking the perimeter and standing guard. Sherlock drove us straight up to the gates, where we were stopped by a military security guard holding a rifle. He walked up to the driver's window as Sherlock stopped the car.

"Pass, please." He asked.

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and handed him a pass.

"Thank you."

The man walked away with the pass as another man had a sniffer dog check the jeep, probably for explosives

"You've got ID for Baskerville. How?" John asked quietly.

"It's not specific to this place. It's my brother's. Access all areas. I, um ..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "...acquired it ages ago, just in case."

"Brilliant," John breathed sarcastically.

"What's the matter?"

"We'll get caught." I answered.

"No we won't – well, not just yet." Sherlock told us.

"Caught in five minutes. "Oh, hi, we just thought we'd come and have a wander round your top secret weapons base." "Really? Great! Come in – kettle's just boiled." That's if we don't get shot." John complained.

The gates began to slide open as the security guard walked back over to the car.

"Clear." The dog handler told the guard.

"Thank you very much, sir." The guard said to Sherlock, handing him the pass.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied.

"Straight through, sir."

Sherlock put the car into gear and rolled us forward through the gates.

"Mycroft's name literally opens doors!" John was amazed.

"I've told you – he practically is the British government. I reckon we've got about twenty minutes before they realize something's wrong." Sherlock informed us.

We pulled up to the main complex at Baskerville, and we were led by another soldier through barriers and towards an entrance to the main building. I looked around to the other people in the vicinity. Almost all of them armed guards patrolling the area, and even the scientists were being escorted. As we approach the entrance, a military jeep pulled up and a young corporal got out.

"What is it?" the corporal asked. "Are we in trouble?"

"Are we in trouble, _sir_." Sherlock repeated sternly.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir." The corporal apologized.

However, the corporal prevented us from getting into the building. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.

"You were expecting us?"

"Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not."

"It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen."

"Ever heard of a spot check?" John asked, taking out his wallet and flashing his army ID to Lyons. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Even before he had finished speaking, the corporal came to attention and saluted. John crisply returned the salute.

"Sir. Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you three – I'm sorry, ma'am, who are you?" He directed the question at me.

"Recording secretary," I said, pulling out a spiral notebook I always carried with me and flashing it at him. "I write down what they tell me for later review."

"I'm afraid we won't have time for a meeting with Major Barrymore." John interjected. "We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on."

The corporal hesitated.

"That's an order, Corporal." John pressed.

"Yes, sir."

He spun around and led us towards the entrance. I threw a proud smile at John as we followed, and I could see Sherlock doing the same. Lyons swiped his pass at the entrance, which was marked as an AUTOMATIC SECURITY DOOR, and Sherlock repeated the action with his own pass. The reader beeped its approval and Lyons pressed a button to unlock the door. Sherlock checked his watch as the door swung open. Lyons led us inside, taking off his beret as he went.

"Nice touch." Sherlock told John quietly.

"Haven't pulled rank in ages." John replied.

"Enjoy it?" I asked.

"Oh yeah."

When we reached the door, Lyons swiped his pass and then stepped aside for Sherlock to do likewise. Once again, the machine granted approval. The doors slid opens to reveal an elevator on the other side. Lyons pressed the marked -1 button and the doors close, moving us to the next floor down. We were led into a brightly lit and white tiled laboratory. As we walked forward, I noticed various scientific staff dressed either in white coveralls including full breathing masks, or lab coats and face masks were walking around the lab.

"How many animals do you keep down here?" Sherlock asked.

"Lots, sir." Lyons answered.

"Any ever escape?"

"They'd have to know how to use that lift, sir. We're not breeding them that clever."

"Unless they have help."

A man in a white lab coat holding a mask walked over to us.

"Ah, and you are?" He asked us.

"Sorry, Doctor Frankland." Lyons apologized. "I'm just showing these gentlemen and young lady around."

"Ah, new faces, huh?" Frankland beamed at us. "Nice. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!"

John chuckled politely as Frankland walked away towards the elevator, Lyons continuing on towards the other end of the room.

"How far down does that lift go?" I asked, remembering to substitute the English colloquial word for elevator.

"Quite a way, ma'am." Lyons answered.

"Right, and what's down there?"

"Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, ma'am." He answered briskly. "This way please, gentlemen, ma'am."

"So what exactly is it that you do here?" John asked him.

"I thought you'd know, sir, this being an inspection." Lyons replied.

"Well, I'm not an expert, am I?"

"Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir."

"But mostly weaponry?"

"Of one sort or another, yes."

We had reached the next door, and Lyons swiped his pass. Sherlock reached in and did the same.

"Biological, chemical ...?" John pressed.

"One war ends, another begins, sir. New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared."

Sherlock checked his watch again as Lyons led us through the doors and into another lab where a monkey stood up on its back legs with one hand high in the air and shrieking before sitting down again on a high metal table. A female scientist looked at it and then turned to her colleague.

"Okay, Michael, let's try Harlow Three next time." She said to the man.

We approached her as she began to walk away from the table.

"Doctor Stapleton." Lyons greeted as we reached her.

"Stapleton." Sherlock muttered thoughtfully.

"Yes?" She answered, looking at us. "Who's this?"

"Priority Ultra, ma'am." Lyons informed her. "Orders from on high. An inspection."

"Really?"

"We're to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton." Sherlock replied. "What's your role at Baskerville?"

Stapleton snorted in disbelief.

"Er, accorded every courtesy, isn't that the idea?" John pressed.

"I'm not free to say." She responded, "Official secrets."

"Oh, you most certainly are free ..." Sherlock said, smiling before lowering his voice ominously. "... and I suggest you remain that way."

She stared at him, hesitating, for a moment. "I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up. Genes, mostly, now and again actual fingers."

Sherlock got a strange look on his face before digging around in his pocket, pulling out his notebook.

"Stapleton. I knew I knew your name." He said.

"I doubt it." She retorted.

"People say there's no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead." He held up the notebook to her, her face morphing into amazement.

"Have you been talking to my daughter?" She asked.

"Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?" Sherlock asked her.

"The rabbit?" John questioned, bewildered.

"Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive." Sherlock continued.

"The rabbit?" I repeated.

"Clearly an inside job." Sherlock ignored us once more.

"Oh, you reckon?" Stapleton asked, sarcasm lacing her voice.

"Why? Because it glowed in the dark."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?"

Sherlock checked his watch again before turning to Lyons. "Well, I think we've seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much."

"That's it?" Lyons asked, surprised.

"That's it." He turned and walked briskly back to the door as John, Lyons and I followed. "It's this way, isn't it?"

"Just a minute!" Stapleton called after us, though we ignored her.

John and I rushed up to Sherlock so Lyons couldn't hear us.

"Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?" John asked, clearly upset.

Sherlock didn't answer, swiping his card as we reached the door and waiting for Lyons to catch up and do the same with his own card. Sherlock walked swiftly through the security doors as soon as they opened and headed for the elevator. His phone trilled a text alert, and he looked at it without stopping.

"Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft's getting slow." He chuckled, putting his phone back in his pocket.

When we did the same for the elevator doors, I was surprised to see Doctor Frankland standing inside. Hadn't he gotten into the elevator over 15 minutes ago? Had he been waiting there for us?

"Hello ... again." He smiled at us as we got in the elevator.

When we reached our destination one floor up, the doors opened to reveal a bearded man in military uniform waiting for us, and he did not look happy.

"Er, um, Major ..." Lyons started nervously.

"This is bloody outrageous. Why wasn't I told?" Major Barrymore demanded.

"Major Barrymore, is it?" John said, stepping out of the elevator. "Yes, well, good. Very good." He offered Barrymore his hand. "We're very impressed, aren't we, Mr. Holmes?"

Barrymore refused to take John's hand and Sherlock merely pulled out his phone, the text alert going off again

"Deeply; hugely." He muttered, brushing past Barrymore.

We quickly followed him, the major close behind, as we made our way to the exit door.

"The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense ..." Barrymore started.

"I'm so sorry, Major." Sherlock apologized insincerely.

"Inspections?"

"New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to." He lowered his voice for John and me. "Keep walking."

"Sir!" Lyons called, popping out of a side room I didn't even know he had gone into. He slapped an alarm button on the wall, the alert blaring and red lights flashing. The automated security door clicked into lock as we turned back to him. "ID unauthorized, sir."

"What?" Barrymore demanded.

"I've just had the call."

"Is that right?" He turned back to us. "Who are you?"

"Look, there's obviously been some kind of mistake." John attempted to persuade him.

Barrymore held out his hand for Sherlock's ID card, which he handed over. He looked at the card and then up at Sherlock.

"Clearly not Mycroft Holmes."

"Computer error, Major. It'll all have to go in the report." John said, attempting to keep up the façade.

"Noting it," I said, starting to pull out my notebook.

"What the hell's going on?" Barrymore demanded.

"It's all right, Major." Frankland said, walking over. "I know exactly who these gentlemen are."

"You do?" Barrymore asked.

"Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces but Mr. Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place."

"Ah, well ..." Sherlock attempted to explain.

"Good to see you again, Mycroft." Frankland interrupted, offering Sherlock his hand.

I had to struggle to keep my surprise hidden. Sherlock took Frankland's hand, not missing a beat.

"I had the honour of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in ..." Frankland paused, pretending to think "... Brussels, was it?"

"Vienna." Sherlock 'corrected'.

"Vienna, that's it." Frankland turned to Barrymore. "This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There's obviously been a mistake."

Barrymore frowned, but turned and nodded to Lyons, who turned off the alarm.

"On your head be it, Doctor Frankland." Barrymore said, turning back to him.

"I'll show them out, Corporal." Frankland laughed lightly, turning to Lyons.

"Very well, sir." He replied.

Sherlock spun on his heel and walked towards the now open entrance door, John, Frankland and I on his heels.

"Thank you." Sherlock said to Frankland once we were out of earshot.

"This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" He asked, though none of us responded. "I thought so. I knew he wanted help but I didn't realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!"

I could feel Sherlock tense up beside me.

"Oh, don't worry. I know who you really are. I'm never off your website." Frankland quickly added. "Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."

"That wasn't my hat." Sherlock replied tersely.

"I hardly recognize him without the hat!" Frankland said to John and me.

"It wasn't my hat." Sherlock said, biting the 't's.

"I love the blog too, Doctor Watson." Frankland added.

"Oh, cheers!" John thanked him.

"The, er, the Pink thing ..."

"Mmm-hmm."

"... and that one about the aluminum crutch!"

"Yes."

_Please don't mention me. Please don't mention me._ I prayed inside my head. An older man talking to me about my lingerie? No thank you.

"You know Henry Knight?" Sherlock asked as he stopped and turned towards Frankland.

"Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend." Frankland turned, noticing Barrymore watching us, before turning back. "Listen, I can't really talk now." He took a card from his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "Here's my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call."

"I never did ask, Doctor Frankland, what exactly is it that you do here?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I'd have to kill you!" Frankland laughed cheerfully.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you." Sherlock replied, absolutely straight-faced. "Tell me about Doctor Stapleton."

"Never speak ill of a colleague."

"Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're clearly omitting to do."

"I do seem to be, don't I?"

"I'll be in touch." Sherlock raised the card.

"Any time."

We left him behind, walking back to the jeep.

"So?" John asked.

"So?" Sherlock repeated.

"What was all that about the rabbit?"

With a smile as his only answer, Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up as we reached the car. John rolls his eyes and turned to him.

"Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?" He asked.

"Do what?"

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but his confusion prevented any words from coming out.

"... I don't do that." Sherlock protested finally, getting into the car.

"Yeah you do." I countered.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Soo...just a few more days until the premiere (I love that word) of the first chapter of my Moriarty story. I've only gotten three people's opinions on titles, so if you haven't let me know yet, DO IT!**

**And, as always, please review.**

**And did I mention I really don't like this episode?**

* * *

As we drove across the moors to Henry's house, John was unable to let the unanswered question about Bluebell rest.

"So, the email from Kirsty – the, er, missing luminous rabbit." He began.

"Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specializes in genetic manipulation." Sherlock informed him.

"She made her daughter's rabbit glow in the dark."

"Probably a fluorescent gene removed and spliced into the specimen. Simple enough these days."

"So ..." John trailed off, intending for Sherlock to elaborate.

"So we know that Doctor Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is: has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?"

"To be fair, that is quite a wide field."

A scary as it was, he was right.

"I just have one question," I interjected. "Why did Frankland say 'cell' number? Don't you call it a 'mobile' over here?"

"Probably spent a considerable amount of time in America," Sherlock postulated.

"Hmm," I muttered, not totally convinced. Something just seemed off.

Henry's home was enormous – a four-story stone building that was probably a very important property in the area in the past. There was a large old-fashioned glass conservatory is attached to the rear of the building on the ground floor, which looked more like a small jungle than a conservatory, and a modern two-story glass extension built onto the side of the house to join it to another two-story stone building nearby. I would gladly move in there in a heartbeat. We went through the conservatory to get to the door, and I noticed how very run-down it looked. It obviously hadn't been painted in years. Sherlock rang the doorbell and moments later Henry opened the door.

"Hi." He greeted.

"Hi." John responded.

"Come in, come in."

I followed Sherlock as he walked in and down the hallway. John, however, stopped to look into a large high-ceilinged sitting room before following Henry again.

"This is, uh ... are you, um ..." He paused, feeling around for the right word. "... rich?"

"Yeah." Henry answered.

"Right."

Henry passed us, leading us towards the kitchen. Sherlock tossed a dark look at John, and I rolled my eyes.

"Play nice," I muttered.

When we sat down in the kitchen, Sherlock began making himself coffee. Henry sat across from John and me, and began to describe the dreams he'd been having.

"It's-it's a couple of words. It's what I keep seeing. 'Liberty' ..." He said, staring at the island table.

"Liberty." John repeated, pulling out his notebook.

"'Liberty' and ... 'in'. It's just that." He picked up the bottle of milk that had been left on the island. "Are you finished?"

"Mmm." John nodded.

As Henry put the milk in the fridge, John turned to Sherlock, who was now seated next to him.

"Mean anything to you?"

"Liberty in death – isn't that the expression?" Sherlock said softly. "The only true freedom."

"What now, then?" Henry asked, turning back around.

"Sherlock's got a plan." I told him.

"Yes."

"Right." Henry said.

"We take you back out onto the moor ..." Sherlock began.

"Okay ..."

"... and see if anything attacks you."

"What?" John was shocked.

"Whoa, wait, what?" I cried simultaneously.

"That should bring things to a head." Sherlock finished dryly.

"At night? You want me to go out there at night?" Henry asked shakily.

"Mmm." Sherlock affirmed.

"That's your plan?" John snorted with laughter. "Brilliant."

"Got any better ideas?" Sherlock asked.

"That's not a plan."

"Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives."

He looked at Henry, flashing a smile before sipping his coffee. Henry, however, did not look encouraged in the slightest.

It was dusk when we finally went to the moors, and Henry was leading us across the rocks towards Dewer's Hollow. By the time we reached the woods it was almost completely dark and as we headed into the trees what little light was left faded off. At least we had flashlights. I heard John stop behind me, and turned to see what had caught his eye. Sherlock and Henry took no notice and kept walking forward. I stepped closer to John as he flashed his light into the bushes, but there was nothing there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright light blinking repeatedly off into the distance.

"Sher..." John began, but realized he had already gone off.

"Is it Morse?" I asked as he turned around.

"Possibly," he pulled out his notebook. "U ... M ... Q ... R ... A."

The light vanished, offering no more letters.

"U, M, Q, R, A." He repeated it in a whisper.

"Umqra?" I tested. "Umq – that's not a word."

John shook his head, shutting the notebook, and headed off where the other two had gone. I had no other choice but to follow him. Neither of us knew how far we were behind, so we called Sherlock's name as loud as we dared. At one point, he held out a hand, stopping me from going forward. I strained my eyes and ears, trying to get a hint of what he had stopped for. There was an eerie metallic thrumming sound, coming from somewhere. He stopped and aimed his flashlight in the direction of the sound, but there was nothing. We started to move forward, but heard it again. It repeated, now interspersed with a short metallic ping. John walked slowly towards the sound, holding out a hand for me to stay back, but began to quietly chuckle when he found the source. I walked forward slightly, seeing a rusty metal container, or it might've been an oil drum, lying in the undergrowth. Rain water or dew was dripping from the tree above it, causing the noises when it hit the drum. As John and I made sounds of relief, we heard something massive flashes through the bushes behind us. We spun to look but it was already gone; a couple of seconds later an anguished howl burst from the distance. John and I shared a short worried glance before taking off to find the others.

Not too long after, we saw Sherlock storming through the trees, followed closely by Henry.

"Did you hear that?" John asked, referencing the howl we had heard.

Sherlock didn't answer, storming straight past us. We turned to follow him.

"We saw it. We saw it." Henry said breathlessly.

"No. I didn't see anything." Sherlock denied, almost rushing his words.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I didn't. See. Anything." He spat out, not stopping for anything.

I brought Sherlock back to the inn as John took Henry back to his house. He refused to speak to me, no matter what I tried. I sat him in an armchair by a roaring open fire, his face still full of shock and disbelief.

"Sherlock, what happened?" I pressed, sitting down in the armchair in the middle.

No response.

"You wouldn't be looking like this if nothing happened. Please, tell me."

Nothing. Moments later, John returned, sitting down in the free arm chair on the other side of the fire.

"Well, he is in a pretty bad way." John started, referring to Henry. "He's manic, totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors."

Sherlock didn't answer, pressing his hands together in his normal thinking position and tossing a worry filled glance at John before looking back to the fire.

"And there isn't, though, is there?" John continued. "Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we'd know.

Sherlock clasped his fingers together, closing his eyes and breathing heavily as if he was trying to fend off a panic attack.

"They'd be for sale. I mean, that's how it works." John pulled out his notebook. "Er, listen, er, on the moor I saw someone signaling. Er, Morse – I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense."

Sherlock was silent still, pulling in a sharp breaths through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth. I placed my hand delicately on his arm, and he flinched slightly at the contact.

"Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean ... anything ..."

John looked at Sherlock and finally realized how distressed Sherlock was. He paused for a moment, putting is notebook away again and sits back in his chair.

"So, okay, what have we got?" John continued. "We know there's footprints, cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something."

Sherlock blew out another shaky breath. John looked across to him and frowned momentarily.

"Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog."

"Henry's right." Sherlock finally spoke.

"What?" I asked.

"I saw it too." Sherlock's voice was shaking.

"What?" John said, shocked.

"I saw it too, John." Sherlock repeated.

"Just ... just a minute." John sat forward. "You saw what?"

Sherlock turned his face towards John, his face twisted with self-loathing as he spoke through gritted teeth.

"A hound, out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound."

John almost laughed as Sherlock looked away, trying unsuccessfully to blink back tears. I shot a scathing look at John as he sat back in his chair.

"Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can't just ..." He paused as Sherlock blew out another breath. "Let's just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts."

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true." Sherlock said softly.

"You've said that before," I mentioned, rubbing his arm gently.

"So what does that mean in this case?" John asked.

Sherlock looked away, reaching down to the table to grab his drink from the table. He nodded towards his trembling hand, sniggering humorlessly. "Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid."

He took a drink and held the glass up again, his hand still shaking.

"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.

"Always been able to keep myself distant ..." He took another drink. "... divorce myself from ... feelings that were unnecessary. But look, you see ..." He held up the glass and glared at his shaking hand. "... body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions." He slammed the glass down onto the table. "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

"Yeah, all right, Spock, just ..." John paused, realizing he'd begun to raise his voice. "... take it easy."

"John," I started.

"He's been pretty wired lately, Diana, you know he has." John interrupted before turning back to Sherlock. "I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."

"Worked ... up?" Sherlock spat.

"It was dark and scary ..."

Sherlock laughed sarcastically, "Me? There's nothing wrong with me."

He looked away, almost beginning to hyperventilate, as he put his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. John looked at him in concern.

"Sherlock ..." he began.

"John, lay off him," I warned softly, noticing Sherlock's fingers beginning to tremble against his skin.

John ignored me. "Sher..."

"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, glaring at John. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He paused, looking at the patrons who were now staring. He turned back to John, one of his hands firmly clasped on the hand I had left on his arm. "You want me to prove it, yes?" He pulled in a deep breath. "We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?"

He looked over his shoulder and pointed at a man and woman sitting opposite each other at a table in the corner of the restaurant.

"How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer's yes."

"Yes?" John asked.

"She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for."

"Oh, Sherlock, for God's sake ..." John said quietly.

Sherlock looked briefly across at the man before turning away again.

"Look at the jumper he's wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it's a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money." He took another quick glance. "He's treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economize on his own food."

"Well, maybe he's just not hungry." John supposed.

"No, small plate. Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her pavlova. If she'd treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry all right, and not well off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. _How d'you know she's his mother?" _Sherlock's voice was becoming a low hiss, almost frantic._ "_Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an elder sister, but mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They're all quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he's turned to his widowed mother for help. "Widowed?" Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain round her neck – clearly her late husband's and too big for her finger. She's well-dressed but her jewelry's cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it – it's sentimental. Now, the dog: tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. _How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?_ 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening, I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."

He glared at John, who stared back at him in shock.

"Yeah." John said, clearing his throat. "Okay. Okay."

John attempted to settle back in his chair as Sherlock stared towards the fire, breathing heavily, his hand still firmly grasping mine.

"And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend." John stated.

"I don't have friends." Sherlock spat savagely.

"Oh, Jesus," I moaned, putting my head in my hands.

"Naah. Wonder why?" John said softly, getting up and walking away.

I sat there, my head still in my hands, after John had left. Sherlock had really put his foot in it this time.

"Aren't you going to leave too?" Sherlock asked, the venom having gone out of his voice.

"Do you want me to?" I asked, lifting my head from my palms.

"No, though I wasn't sure if you were offended by what I said. It's perfectly reasonable to be."

"Yes, well this isn't a perfectly reasonable situation. You're obviously still scared out of your mind. The things you say have to be taken with a grain of salt. Plus John was kind of being an ass. I don't think he knows how to handle you with emotions."

Sherlock groaned. "This is all your fault."

"What? How is this my fault?"

"If you hadn't made me feel something then I wouldn't be in this position."

I chuckled lightly, "I'm sure there are other things that could've caused you to react like this besides your feelings for me. The giant dog, for one."

Sherlock didn't answer, and when I looked up I saw the look of amazed realization glowing on his face.

"Of course," He breathed.

He turned to me and planted a long kiss on my lips.

"Of course there was something else!" He was ecstatic, holding my head gently in between his hands. "Drugs!"

"I'm sorry, you lost me."

"We were drugged! We had to have been!"

"Okay, but how?"

He didn't answer, melting back into his chair and going into his thinking position.

"We've all eaten and drunk the same thing since we've gotten here."

"Right…"

He paused again, thinking.

"Sugar," he finally said.

"Pardon?"

"You take sugar in your tea, but you didn't have any tea at Henry's."

"Right."

"John and I had coffee, but John doesn't take sugar in his coffee."

"So you're saying the sugar was drugged."

"It's the only explanation."

"As of yet," I added. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

I pulled him up gently, guiding him towards our rooms. We stopped momentarily when we heard someone call the name 'Louise Mortimer'. We looked to the owner of the name, a pretty woman who looked to be about John's age sitting at one of the tables. Sherlock took his phone out and snapped a picture.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Getting John to interview her." He replied.

"Okay, but why aren't you going to do it?"

"Haven't we agreed I'm not myself at the moment?"

I chuckled, "Fair point."


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: THIS IS A MATURE CHAPTER SKIP IT IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORATBLE! That is all. Wuv you guys! **

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I walked Sherlock to his room; he was still not back to his usual self.

"Will you - ?" He started as we walked into the room.

I smiled. "Of course."

I closed the door behind us, ruffling my hair a little as I wondered what would happen between us. I turned around, seeing Sherlock sitting on the bed, his shoulders still tensed up from the events earlier that night. I walked over and wrapped my arms around his slightly shaking form. I buried my face in the curly mess of hair as I rubbed his arms softly.

"I hate this," he muttered.

I smiled sadly; I had no idea how Sherlock was feeling but I could imagine it wasn't a pleasant one.

"You know what you need," I asked softly, pulling away from the embrace.

He didn't answer, but turned his face towards me to indicate he was listening.

"You need a nice, long, relaxing bath."

I walked off to the attached bathroom. One of the good things about inns like this was the fact that they always had bathtub/shower combos. I sat on the edge of the tub and began to draw the water. I glanced back at Sherlock, who was still seated in the same place. I laughed lightly.

"Sherlock, take off your clothes and come in here. Trust me, it's going to help."

He tentatively got off the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. I shook my head lightly, turning back to the running tap to check the temperature of the water. When the tub was full, I shut off the tab and turned around, only to be met with Sherlock in all his glory. My words got stuck in my throat momentarily.

"I – er, you can get in now." I told him, backing up to give him access to the tub.

He got in a laid against the cool porcelain of the tub, and I sat on the floor next to him. I lathered up a washcloth and began to gently scrub the exposed skin, humming slightly as I went. Sherlock's eyes were closed as he leaned his head back against the tub's edge. I smiled at the sight of his knees poking out of the water; he was far too tall for normal sized tubs. I looked back to his face, slightly taken aback at the intense stare he directed at me. Our gaze was locked momentarily, before he gripped the back of my head and brought me in to a fierce kiss.

Suddenly, I realized that not only was my body burning, but my lungs were as well, begging for air, and though I was loathing pulling away from such temptation, I had to in order to live through it. Pulling back my head slowly, I noticed we were both panted, dragging in much needed air as we stared at each other. I studied his face again, trying to judge his reaction, his feelings on the whole matter.

Sherlock's eyes were completely glazed over, and I finally saw in them what I'd been wishing for. Not that I hadn't caught him staring at me with desire, but it had always been guarded before, as if he was holding himself back. The only times he ever let it go was when I had guided him into it in lieu of a case. Now, as I gazed into his eyes, I saw an unbridled fire and passion, and it took my breath away.

It was only a moment that our lips were apart before Sherlock lunged forward, lacing his fingers into my hair and claiming my lips with his, engaging me in such a kiss that I truly felt I could die from it. He moved himself out from the bath water semi-clumsily and, dripping wet, guided me backwards to the bed. This was quite possibly better than heaven; for surely heaven couldn't hold much more pleasure than this, but then I felt his warm hand sneak under the hem of my shirt. It teased and flirted with the skin of my abdomen, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. His pinky finger occasionally passed the boundary of my jeans, and lingered there a second longer before his hand traveled back up farther.

His kiss became more vigorous, his tongue passing through my lips and caressing mine, battling for possession, as I felt one of my breasts being encompassed by his hand. I shivered from his aggressiveness and knew I wasn't going to last much longer when I felt his hand groping me and his fingers lightly teasing my painfully taught nipple. I ripped my lips from his and stared at him, his eyes holding a small question in them, as if he wasn't sure why I had pulled back from him. I knew I needed him, and I needed him quick.

"Take me." The words sounded hoarse around my ragged breathing, but I didn't care and I moaned when I once again felt his fingers trail over my nipple, "Oh, fuck it all, take me, now!"

And it was all Sherlock needed. He guided me down to the bed and grabbed the hem of my shirt and swiftly lifted the garment up and off of me. As soon as the shirt left my arms and went flying to the floor, he once again claimed my lips in a fiery kiss. My hand lifted and tangled in the mess of dark curled hair at the nape of his neck as I deepened the kiss. I could feel his hardening desire pressed against me and she couldn't stop my free hand from traveling down his chest and cupping it fully. A gasping groan left his throat and traveled into my mouth when I touched him in his most heated spot and his lips faltered momentarily. He pulled back and looked down at my hand groping him softly; seeing it seemed to send him to new heights of desire and he quickly began to unbutton my jeans as swiftly as he could.

I was completely fine with this, since I had just been coming to the conclusion that I was wearing too many clothes. My hand left his aroused sex to travel and explore the skin of his chest and torso as he brought his lips to mine. His hands shook slightly as he fiddled with the zipper of my jeans, and I reached a hand down to help him with the process. Their kiss ended when Sherlock began to drag the article of clothing down my legs. He sat back to do this and once he threw the unwanted garment to the floor, he took that opportunity to let his gaze wander my body.

I felt myself blush over his approving stare, but the slight color to my cheeks seemed to please him as he once again lowered himself onto me. His lips found my neck as his hand once again found my breast, clad only in a black lace bra. I moaned at the sheer pleasure that the combination of his hands and lips aroused in the base of my stomach. I felt his hand leave my breast and travel around to my bra clasp. With still shaking fingers, he managed to unhook it and he dragged it from my body.  
Sherlock stopped kissing my neck and raised his head slightly to peer down at the newly revealed part. He had seen them before, multiple times, but for some reason I was especially concerned with what he thought of them at that very moment. I couldn't keep my eyes from his face, trying to judge what he was thinking. Was he pleased with what he saw? Sherlock's eyes traveled up to mine, and as if he read what I was thinking, a smile broke on his face before he lowered his head to kiss the valley between my nicely rounded forms.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip when I felt his kiss stray from the path between and wander to the left, kissing up until he reached my very aroused nipple. I hissed with pleasure when I felt his hot mouth encompass it and his velvet tongue tease until he brought it to an almost painful hardness. I gasped and once again tangled my fingers into his hair. Grabbing onto it, I yanked his head up so that I could once again claim his lips. I circled his waist with my legs, gasping when I felt him suckle on the soft skin of my shoulder.

"Sherlock, please…now," was all I got out in between moans of pleasure.

Sherlock stopped kissing my throat and moved until his very aroused member was positioned at my entrance, but he hesitated. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me with indecision etched all across his beautiful features.

"Sherlock?" I questioned softly as I lifted a hand to tenderly brush the hair from his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

The question came out on a rugged breath, but still, he stared at me, waiting for my answer.

"Am I sure?" I didn't know what was wrong. We had done this numerous times before, and yet he was hesitating _now_?

"Are you sure this is what you want?" I could see the struggle he was having trying to control himself, and I knew, that if I were to tell him now that I didn't want this, that he would stop. No matter how painfully aroused he was, he would stop.

A soft smile curved the sides of my mouth as she stared up at him, realizing what he was thinking. "You think because I saw you at a vulnerable moment I wouldn't want you? Oh you silly, wonderful man," I said and lifted myself up to kiss his lips tenderly.

"Now if you don't mind…" The seductive whisper trailed off as I lifted my hips and rubbed my middle against his hard shaft as if to prove my point.

Sherlock groaned at the contact and his lips met mine in a crushing kiss just as he thrust himself into me. My back arched at the wonderful sensation of his entry, and a strangled moan climbed up my throat when I felt him reposition himself and thrust into that secret spot deep within me. All the times before this couldn't have prepared me for the wondrous feeling of him inside of me, and when his lips left mine to kiss my neck, as his thrusts became faster, I felt my body break out into a pleasing sweat.  
Our breathing came in ragged gasps when Sherlock once again picked up his pace, never missing my pleasure spot and turning my entire body into one mass of desire. It seemed that everywhere he touched brought new heightened sensations and it amazed me. I felt myself nearing my climax and I tightened my legs around his waist, praying that we might share it together. Sherlock kissed up my neck and past my ear until he once again met my lips, his thrusts never ceasing, never slowing and he grabbed onto my thigh when he felt his own climax nearing.

Sharing in the astounding sensation of the most beautiful of heightened points together, I ripped my mouth from his to give voice to the wonderful feeling. Sherlock collapsed on top of me. Our bodies were damp from perspiration, and our breathing was ragged, but still we didn't move.

Soon, Sherlock lifted his head to peer into my eyes. My kiss-swollen lips parted into a charming smile, and it made the content one on his face widen. He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on my lips.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad that these past few chapters haven't been suckish. I'm putting this story on pause for just a little bit to get more chapters of "Westwood" out for you guys, so don't worry you'll still have stuff to read!**

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I woke up the next morning, having spent the night with Sherlock, completely alone in the bed. There was no sign of him in the bathroom, and his coat was gone. I groaned, knowing he had taken off somewhere. I threw on my clothes from last night and made my way to my room to put on fresh clothes. When I had finished I went to John's room and knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

_If they both have left me here, there's going to be some hell to pay._

I ruffled my hair, walking outside and saw Sherlock walking through the village.

"Where were you?" I asked.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the sugar tin that I saw at Henry's house. Sherlock gave it a meaningful shake before putting it back into his pocket.

"Sherlock, you didn't."

"I have to test a theory." He said, continuing his pace towards the inn, me following behind.

He stopped as we neared the church, and I saw John in the church graveyard, sitting on the steps of a war memorial and looking through the notes in his notebook. Sherlock and I walked towards John, who looked up when he heard us approach. His expression became uncomfortable as he tucked his notebook into his pocket. We stopped in front of him, Sherlock also looking awkward.

"Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?" He asked.

"U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?"

John didn't respond, continuing to walk as Sherlock and I followed along behind him.

"UMQRA." Sherlock tested.

"Nothing."

"U.M.Q..."

"Look, forget it. It's ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn't."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?"

"No."

"Too bad. Did you get any information?"

I saw John smile briefly and glance over his shoulder, continuing his pace.

"You being funny now?" He asked.

"Thought it might break the ice a bit."

"Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice."

I could feel Sherlock tense beside me as he looked at John's retreating back, his face full of pain.

"John ..." Sherlock started.

"It's fine."

"No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before ..."

"Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said."

Sherlock jogged up to him, pulling his arm to turn John to face him.

"No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster."

"No, I can't believe that." Sherlock grinned bitterly for a moment. "But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?"

"Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that."

John turned and began to walk away again. Sherlock turned and called after him.

"Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it."

John stopped and turned back to face us.

"I don't have friends." Sherlock bit his lip briefly. "I've just got one."

John looked away momentarily before turning back and nodding towards me briefly and glancing back at Sherlock.

"Right."

He turned and began to walk away yet again. I rolled my eyes.

"Oh my god, John. You're such a dumbass. He means you!" I called after him.

John froze and turned around, "What?"

"Friend," I pointed at him, before turning my fingers towards me, "Girlfriend. There's a bit of a distinction."

John looked from me to Sherlock. "Oh, right."

He stood there, shuffling awkwardly, slightly embarrassed at his reaction. He turned and began to walk off again. I raised my hands in despair, giving up on the situation. Sherlock, who had been looking down, instantly raised his head as his eyes began to flicker in realization.

"John? John!" Sherlock started to chase after John. "You are amazing! You are fantastic!"

"Yes, all right! You don't have to overdo it." John said, not stopping.

Sherlock caught up with him, getting in front of him and walking backwards in front of him. I started walking at the same pace as John to find out where Sherlock was going with the conversation.

"You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable." Sherlock began.

"Cheers. ... What?"

Sherlock turned round and w placed himself on the opposite side of John, pulling out his notebook and starting to write in it.

"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."

"Hang on – you were saying "Sorry" a minute ago. Don't spoil it. Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?"

Sherlock stopped just outside the pub door and turned back to us, showing what he has just written in his notebook: HOUND

"Yeah?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled the notebook back and wrote in it again, "But what if it's not a word? What if it is individual letters?"

He turned the notebook around again, now reading: H.O.U.N.D.

"You think it's an acronym?" I asked.

"Absolutely no idea but ..." Sherlock said as he put the notebook back in his pocket, trailing off as he looked inside the pub.

We followed his line of sight though the pub door and saw a familiar figure standing inside at the bar. Wearing grey trousers and a grey shirt with a light jacket over the top, heavily suntanned and with sunglasses on, Detective Inspector Lestrade stood there as if he was expecting someone. Sherlock stormed into the pub, John and I close behind.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded.

"Well, nice to see you too," Lestrade retorted sarcastically. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Hullo, John, Diana." Lestrade greeted, taking off his sunglasses, as he caught sight of us.

"Greg!" John greeted.

"I heard you three were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?"

"I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?" Sherlock pressed.

"I've told you: I'm on holiday." Lestrade answered.

"You're brown as a nut. You're clearly just back from your 'holidays'."

"Yeah, well I fancied another one." Lestrade attempted nonchalance.

"Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?"

"No, look ..."

"Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to ... to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"

"That's his name." I informed him.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes – if you'd ever bothered to find out. Look, I'm not your handler ..." Lestrade answered, turning away to pick up his pint from the bar. "... and I don't just do what your brother tells me."

"Actually, you could be just the man we want." John mused.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I've not been idle, Sherlock." John answered, rummaging in his trouser pocket. "I think I might have found something."

He showed Sherlock the sales invoice from Undershaw Meat Supplies that he had found when we first checked in.

"Here. Didn't know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant."

"Excellent." Sherlock murmured.

I grinned as I looked at Lestrade knowing what John was talking about. "Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy."

As Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a look, John slapped his hand down on the bell on top of the bar.

"Shop!"

Later Lestrade began looking through the paperwork Billy and Gary had brought him. The three were sitting at a table while John and I leaned against the wall near the fireplace. Sherlock was behind the bar, making coffee. When he caught my eye, he tapped the spoon he had been stirring the coffee with ostentatiously. My eyes widened; Sherlock had put the possibly drugged sugar in the coffee. Sherlock smiled slightly, slipping it off as he picked up the cup and carried it over to John, offering it to him.

"What's this?" John asked.

"Coffee. I made coffee."

"You never make coffee."

"I just did. Don't you want it?"

"You don't have to keep apologizing."

Sherlock looked away with a hurt expression on his face. John relented and took the cup and saucer. I shook my head; Sherlock was mental.

"Thanks." Sherlock smiled happily as John sipped, grimacing slightly. "Mm. I don't take sugar ..."

John looked back at Sherlock, the hurt expression coming back onto his face as he looked away again. His expression reminded me of a puppy whose owner has just told him off for chewing his slippers. John looked at his face and took another drink.

"These records go back nearly two months." Lestrade said as he finished flipping through the books.

Grimacing at the taste, John put the cup back into the saucer and looked at Sherlock. "That's nice. That's good."

He turned away to put the drink down as Greg continued interrogating Gary and Billy. I threw a scolding glance at Sherlock, who responded with a small shrug and an 'I don't give a fuck' grin.

"Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?" Lestrade asked Billy and Gary.

"It's me. It was me." Billy confessed, turning to Gary. "I'm sorry, Gary – I couldn't help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Carol's wedding and one thing just led to another ..."

But Lestrade wasn't having any of it. "Nice try."

"Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know?" Gary explained guiltily. "A great big dog run wild up on the moor – it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster."

"Where do you keep it?" Lestrade asked.

"There's an old mineshaft. It's not too far. It was all right there."

"Was?" Sherlock clarified.

Gary sighed, "We couldn't control the bloody thing. It was vicious. And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er ... you know."

"It's dead?" John asked.

"Put down." Gary confirmed.

"Yeah. No choice. So it's over." Billy added.

"It was just a joke, you know?"

"Yeah, hilarious," Lestrade said acerbically, standing up and looking at them angrily. "You've nearly driven a man out of his mind."

He walked out of the room, John and I following him.

"You know he's actually pleased you're here?" John told Lestrade when we were outside of the pub.

Lestrade threw him a disbelieving look.

"Secretly pleased." John corrected.

"Is he? That's nice…I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his ... his ..."

He stopped, searching for the right word.

"... Asperger's?" John suggested.

Sherlock emerged from the pub, glowering at John as he had heard the last word.

"So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed?" Lestrade asked.

"No reason not to." Sherlock asnwered.

"Well, hopefully there's no harm done. Not quite sure what I'd charge him with anyway. I'll have a word with the local Force." He nodded to us. "Right, that's that, then. Catch you later." He smiled. "I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out of your lungs!"

John turned to Sherlock as Lestrade walked away. "So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?"

"Looks like it." Sherlock agreed.

"But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog."

"No." Sherlock mused, his gaze becoming distant. "It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing." He shuddered, shaking off the memory, before turning and walking towards the car park. "I've got a theory but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it."

"How? Can't pull off the ID trick again." John told him as we followed.

"Might not have to." Sherlock replied, pulling out his phone and hitting speed dial. "Hello, brother dear. How are you?"

We arrived at the entrance gates to Baskerville yet again, an armed security man walking over to Sherlock's side as the dog handler and sniffer dog also approach.

"Afternoon, sir. If you could turn the engine off." He asked as Sherlock complied and handed over the ID. "Thank you."

As he went over the gate room to swipe the card and other soldiers checked the vehicle over from the outside, Sherlock leaned slightly towards John.

"Diana and I need to see Major Barrymore as soon as we get inside."

"Right." John said.

"Which means you'll have to start the search for the hound."

"Okay."

"In the labs; Stapleton's first."

The guard brought the ID card back and handed it over.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock added quietly.

John smiled momentarily. The gate slid open and Sherlock restarted the car and drove onto the base.

As John went off to search the labs, Sherlock and I made our way to Barrymore's office to inform him of what Sherlock wanted.

"Oh, you know I'd love to. I'd love to give you unlimited access to this place. Why not?" Barrymore asked in a snarky tone.

"It's a simple enough request, Major." Sherlock informed him.

"I've never heard of anything so bizarre."

"You're to give me twenty-four hours. It's what I've ..." Sherlock paused momentarily, "... negotiated."

"Not a second more." Barrymore added sternly. "I may have to comply with this order but I don't have to like it."

He swung around to his computer on the desk behind him as Sherlock and I started to leave the office.

"I don't know what you expect to find here anyway." Barrymore called after us.

"Perhaps the truth." Sherlock turned around.

"About what?" Barrymore faced us again. "Oh, I see. The big coat should have told me."

I frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

"You're one of the conspiracy lot, aren't you? Well, then, go ahead, seek them out: the monsters, the death rays, the aliens."

"Oh, have you got any of those?" I asked nonchalantly.

Barrymore rolled his eyes.

"Oh, just wondering." I added.

"A couple." Barrymore said, leaning forward secretively. "Crash landed here in the sixties. We call them Abbott and Costello."

"What, no mad men in time travelling boxes?" I asked.

Barrymore frowned, straightening up and turning to his computer. "Good luck, Mr. Holmes."

/

John stepping into the first lab he had visited with Sherlock and Diana, seeing two scientists leaving through a side door. The second one turned off the main overhead lights, leaving the room lit far more dimly than John would've liked. Without the lights the lab was a bit spooky. He walked towards doors which Doctor Frankland came out of when they met him. He took out the security pass in his pocket and swiped it through the reader, pulling the door open and going inside, not paying much mind to the handwritten note on the door that read:

KEEP OUT UNLESS YOU WANT A COLD!

He walked through the decontamination zone to the door at the far end and tapped a finger on the glass window in the door. There was no answer, so he pushed the door open and walked into the room. There was a glass-walled section on the left hand side and a glass cage inside the sealed section but nothing inside. There was a desk with equipment, folders, a phone and various other things on it in front of him, and above the desk were small plastic tubes coming out of the wall and dials that indicated that the tubes dispensed various gases. John inspected the inside of a small cupboard set into the desk but there was nothing of interest. On the right hand side of the room were large metal pipes, one of them leaking slightly.

John looked around a little longer before walking back through the decontamination zone and into the lab. As John turned to his right to close the door behind him, a large arc light on a stand lit up and nine bright bulbs shone straight into his eyes. He squinted his eyes shut and turned his head away, grimacing at the pain.

"Oh, no! Jesus! Ow!"

He opened his eyes a little, squinting and trying to see into the room. All the other lights in the room appeared to have come on as well and there's a wall of whiteness all around him from the intense light. A loud insistent alarm began to blare into the room, causing John to groan and cover his ears. Grimacing, he tried to make his way across the lab to the lift, holding his hand up in front of his eyes as the after-image of the arc lights keeps blanking out his vision. Finally he reached the other end of the lab, but when he swiped his card he was told ACCESS DENIED. He stared in disbelief and swiped the card again, but there was no change. He tried once more, the blaring alarm making his head hurt terribly.

"Come on." He said desperately.

There was still no change. John glared at the machine in exasperation, and all the lights went out and the alarm faded into silence. The room was lit only be emergency lighting, dark red and barely illuminating the area.

"What the ...?" He muttered, scrambling in his pocket for his flashlight.

The after-image of the arc lights which is still burned in his retinas, and the small beam of his flashlight didn't help much.

"Hello?" He called out.

He screwed his eyes shut, attempting to clear the after-images. When he opened his eyes, a shadow seemed to flash across the room through the bright dots. John blinked rapidly and looked around the room as well as he could through the after-images. He rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, raising his head when he realized how ominously quiet it was in the lab.

Something rattled to his right. He walked forward cautiously, looking a little anxiously at the row of large cages which he now realized were all covered with sheeting that obscured their contents. He heard the rattle again. John walked slowly to the first cage, checking behind him before grabbing the sheet and pulling it back. It was empty.

He pulled the sheet back down and walked to the second cage. Something clinked near the lift doors. He swung around, shining his torch in the direction, but there was nothing. He turned again and grabbed the sheet over the second cage, tossing it over to see it was empty, the door open. He did the same with the third. The monkey inside hurled itself at him, screaming as it grabbed at the bars. John dropped the sheet and stumbled back several paces, breathing heavily. He walked to the final cage and looked at it, noticing the bottom of the bars of the cage door had been bent back by something that must be incredibly strong. As John stared at the bent bars in disbelief, a low savage growl sounded behind him. He spun around, his eyes going wide as he shined his flashlight around, but there was nothing. He looked at the door to the Cold Lab and walked briskly over to it, taking out his ID card and swiping it. Again the ACCESS DENIED alert came on the screen.

"No, come on, come on."

He swiped the card again to no effect. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, still shining his light around the room. He hit speed dial and held the phone to his ear as it began to ring out.

"No, you ... Don't be ridiculous, pick up." He muttered under his breath.

He switched off the phone, giving up.

"Oh, dammit!"

He put the phone back in his pocket, looking across the room determinedly.

"Right."

He hurried as quickly as he could towards the side door the scientists left through earlier, trying to shine the light in all directions. As he walked, the distinctive sound of claws on floor tiles skittered across the room.

"Oh sh..." he whispered, ducking and hurrying towards the door, his card out and ready. "Okay ..."

The claws trotted across the floor to his right just as he reached the card reader, and then something snarled. John turned and stared, breathing heavily, as more sounds nearby were heard – claws on the floor tiles, equipment being pushed aside, and a low ominous growl. John shoved the card back into his pocket and then clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle his panicked breathing as the growl rumbled again. When it was silent, John raced across the room, running towards the cages and pulling open the door of one of the empty ones before scrambling inside, slamming the door shut, bolting it and pulling the sheet down over the cage. The thing snarled again and John retreated from the door, squatting down against the side bars and covering his mouth again, trying not to sob as the creature growled again.

Suddenly John's phone began to ring. Gasping, he scrambled in his pocket to retrieve it.

"It's here. It's in here with me." He said softly, panic seeming into his words.

"Where are you?" He heard Sherlock's voice.

:Get me out, Sherlock. You have got to get me out. The big lab: the first lab that we saw."

Outside, the creature growled again, John whining loudly in terror and clapping his hand over his mouth again.

"John? John?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, Sherlock. Please." John's voice was no more than a whisper.

"All right, I'll find you. Keep talking."

"I can't. It'll hear me."

"Keep talking. What are you seeing?"

John peered through the small gap in the sheeting, but the room was so dimly lit that he couldn't see anything.

"John?"

The creature snarled again.

"Yes, I'm here." He said softly into the phone.

"What can you see?"

John crawled closer to the gap in the sheeting, trying to keep his terrified breathing under control. "I don't know. I don't know, but I can hear it."

The creature growled loudly.

"Did you hear that?" John was now beyond terrified.

"Stay calm, stay calm. Can you see it?"

John peers into the low-lit room.

"Can you see it?" Sherlock repeated.

"No. I can ..." He trailed off as he saw it, retreating backwards and sitting back against the side bars as his face filled with absolute horror. "I can see it."

He stared ahead, his eyes full of dread as a shadow began to move on the other side of the sheeting.

"It's here."

The shadow moves closer and the creature growled once more.

"It's here." He repeated, thinking this would be the last words he ever said.

The shadow moved closer ... and then the sheeting was tugged upwards as the lights came on in the lab. Sherlock's face appeared on the other side of the cage, looking anxiously down at him as he pulled the door open and goes inside.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

John's eyes widened in utter bewilderment as Sherlock bent down and put a hand onto his shoulder. Diana walked over to the pair and leaned into the cage.

"Damn light switch is impossible to find in the dark." She muttered.

"John ..." Sherlock said carefully.

"Jesus Christ ..." John breathed, grabbing the bars and pulling himself to his feet

He hurried out of the cage, stuffing his phone away as he turned back to his friends.

"It was the hound. It was here. I swear it, Sherlock. It must ..." He was breathless, looking around the fully illuminated lab. There was nowhere a large monster could hide. "It must ..." His voice became higher in panic. "Did ... did ... did you see it? You must have!"

Sherlock held out a placatory hand towards him. "It's all right. It's okay now."

"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY! I saw it. I was wrong!" John's voice raised, in absolute panic.

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions." Sherlock shrugged.

"What?" John asked.

"What did you see?"

"I told you: I saw the hound."

"Huge; red eyes?"

"Yes."

"Glowing?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"What?"

"I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."

"Drugged?"

"Well, you two have been." I clarified.

"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked.

"Course I can walk." John replied shakily.

"Come on, then. It's time to lay this ghost."

Sherlock turned and walked out of the lab. I hung behind, waiting for John. He drew another shaky breath, looking around the lab, before turning to me and seeing my concerned expression. He nodded, letting me know he was okay, and we took off after Sherlock.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Aagh! Thank you guys so much for being patient with me! I tried to get "Devil Wears Westwood" caught up with this story as quickly as possible. It takes ma roughly a day to write a chapter, so I'm going to be alternating updates. So, keep sticking around and wait for the magic! Haha**

**Also, a huge thank you for the reviews! It really means a lot to hear how much you're enjoying the story!**

* * *

We followed Sherlock into a small room full of cages where Doctor Stapleton was examining a fluffy white rabbit on a metal table. She looks up as we walked through the door.

"Oh. Back again?" She asked. "What's on your mind this time?"

"Murder, Doctor Stapleton." Sherlock replied. "Refined, cold-blooded murder."

He reached back and turned off the light switch by the door. The limited lighting coming from the window at the end of the room was just enough to show that the rabbit was brightly glowing green. Sherlock turned the lights back on again.

"Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell or shall I?" He smiled unfeelingly at her.

She sighed, "Okay. What do you want?"

"Can I borrow your microscope?"

Stapleton brought us to a larger lab, and Sherlock immediately began examining the sugar. We sat in silence, waiting for him to tell us the results. John was seated next to me on a stool, his head propped on his hand, gazing blankly into space.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Stapleton asked him.

He looked up at her, blinking.

"You look very peaky." She continued.

"No, I'm all right." He replied, rather unconvincingly.

"It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you're interested."

"What?"

"In the rabbits."

"Mmm, right, yes."

"Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know." She said, quite proudly.

John looked up at her. "Why?"

"Why not? We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done. There was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go.

"Your compassion's overwhelming." John told her cynically.

"I know. I hate myself sometimes." Her tone was just as mocking.

"Shouldn't you keep better track of your experiments?" I asked, not looking at her.

"Excuse me?" She asked, rather offended.

"I mean, how long have you been doing this? Shouldn't you be practiced enough to not let slip ups like that happen? And why make rabbits glow? What's the point?"

"Alright, girls, calm down." John said placating before turning back to Stapleton. "So, come on then. You can trust me – I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?"

Stapleton sighed. "Listen: if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are."

"And cloning?" John asked.

"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?" She replied.

"Human cloning?" I continued.

"Why not?"

"What about animals? Not sheep ... big animals."

"Size isn't a problem, not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law, and both those things can be ... very flexible. But not here – not at Baskerville."

"What about making big animals bigger?" I asked pensively.

But she was unable to answer, because Sherlock snatched the slide he had been looking at out from under the microscope and hurled it against the nearest wall.

"It's not there!" Sherlock was livid.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed.

"Nothing there! Doesn't make any sense."

"What were you expecting to find?" Stapleton asked.

Sherlock began pacing, "A drug, of course. There has to be a drug – a hallucinogenic or a delirient of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar."

"Sugar?" john asked.

"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn't, John. You didn't see it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don't take sugar in your coffee."

"I see. So ..." John trailed off.

"I took it from Henry's kitchen – his sugar." Sherlock glared down at the microscope. "It's perfectly all right."

"But maybe it's not a drug." John surmised.

"No, it has to be a drug."

Sherlock sat on the stool, burying his head in his hands.

"But how did it get into our systems. How?" He began to slowly raise his head, "There has to be something ..." He closed his eyes, moving his head back and forth as if to sift the thoughts in place. "... something ... ah, something ..." He opened his eyes, "... something buried deep."

He breathed in sharply through his nose before turning and pointing imperiously at John, Stapleton, and me.

"Get out." he ordered.

"What?" Stapleton asked.

"Get out. I need to go to my mind palace."

John sagged in his seat as I smiled wryly, slightly shaking my head.

"Your what?" Stapleton pressed.

Sherlock didn't answer, already having turned his head away and staring ahead of himself. John and I got up off the stools.

"He's not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go." John told her.

Sherlock began to breathe deeply to focus his thoughts. Stapleton followed John and me as we headed for the door.

"His what?" Stapleton asked once more.

"His mind palace." I repeated.

"It's a memory technique – a sort of mental map." John clarified. "You plot a map with a location – it doesn't have to be a real place – and then you deposit memories there that ... Theoretically, you can never forget anything; all you have to do is find your way back to it."

"So this imaginary location can be anything – a house or a street." Stapleton mused.

"Yeah." John replied.

"But he said 'palace. He said it was a palace."

"Yeah, well, he would, wouldn't he?" John said, looking back at Sherlock as we left the room.

"So, the sugar?" John asked as we waited for Sherlock.

"Yeah, he put it in your coffee." I said guiltily.

"And you knew?"

"I didn't know he was going to do it until I saw him put the sugar in back at the inn."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"Well what was I supposed to say? 'Hey, John, don't drink that, Sherlock's put some possibly tainted sugar in that coffee'. Besides, Sherlock didn't find anything in the sugar so it's not like it harmed you."

John got an odd grin on his face. "He thought it was the sugar, but it wasn't…"

"Oh no, John. You're not going to lord this over his head are you?"

"I never said I'd do that." He replied innocently.

"Yeah, yeah. Just wait until after the case is done, yeah? We don't want to have to deal with him sulking when we need him to think."

Sherlock walked out of the lab, stopping our conversation. He looked at Stapleton.

"Can you get us into Major Barrymore's office?"

"I can," she replied.

"Well, let's go then." He replied, walking briskly in its direction.

"So, have you got anything?" I asked, trying to keep up with him.

"I have."

"Well?"

"I need to access the files on Barrymore's computer for confirmation."

Stapleton led us John along a corridor and used her card to swipe us into the area leading to Major Barrymore's office. As we walked into the room, Sherlock pointed back to the door we just came through.

"John." He said.

"Yeah, I'm on it." John replied, turning back to keep an eye on the door.

Stapleton walked over to the computer and sat down, Sherlock and I standing behind her.

"Project HOUND. Must have read about it and stored it away. An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana."

Stapleton typed her User ID onto the computer, adding her password. A request to "Enter Search String" came up and she turned to Sherlock.

"H, O, U, N, D." He dictated.

She typed in the letters and hit Enter. A message came onto the screen, saying "NO ACCESS. CIA Classified", requesting an authorization code.

"That's as far as my access goes, I'm afraid." Stapleton sighed.

"Well, there must be an override and password." John mused.

"I imagine so, but that'd be Major Barrymore's."

Sherlock spun around and walked into Barrymore's office.

"Password, password, password." He repeated, switching on the lights and sitting down at the desk. "He sat here when he thought it up."

Folding his hands in front of his mouth, he slowly spun in a full circle on the chair, looking around the office as he went. Stapleton walked up to the doorway.

"Describe him to me." Sherlock ordered.

"You've seen him."

"But describe him."

"Er, he's a bloody martinet, a throw-back, the sort of man they'd have sent into Suez."

"Good, excellent. Old-fashioned, traditionalist; not the sort that would use his children's names as a password." He gestured towards the drawings that Barrymore's children have done for him and which he had pinned on the board above his desk. "He loves his job; proud of it and this is work-related, so what's at eye level?" He rapidly scanned around everything in the room without altering the angle of his eyes. He gestured to the right. "Books." He pointed to the left, "Jane's Defence Weekly – bound copies." He looked to the right again and at the subject matter of some of the books on the bookshelf. "Hannibal; Wellington; Rommel; Churchill's "History of the English-Speaking Peoples" – all four volumes."

He stood up and looked at a bronze bust on a shelf.

"Churchill – well, he's fond of Churchill." He looked back to the bookcases again. "Copy of "The Downing Street Years"; one, two, three, four, five separate biographies of Thatcher." He looked down to a framed photograph on the desk of a man in uniform standing with his teenage son. "Mid nineteen eighties at a guess. Father and son: Barrymore senior. Medals: Distinguished Service Order."

He looked around to John.

"That date? I'd say Falklands veteran." John told him.

"Right. So Thatcher's looking a more likely bet than Churchill."

He walked out of the office and headed back towards the computer.

"So that's the password?" Stapleton asked, following him back to the computer.

"No. With a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms would do."

Leaning down to the keyboard, Sherlock began to type Margaret Thatcher's first name into the "Authorization code" box but stopped, having used the available characters. He narrowed his eyes and deleteed everything back to the first letter, then retyped it as "Maggie". Looking into the screen and gritting his teeth ever so slightly, he hit Enter. The computer beeped happily and announced _OVERRIDE 300/421 ACCEPTED. Loading ..._

John walked over from the door, joining us to look at the screen. After a slight pause information began to stream across the screen as everything related to Project H.O.U.N.D. became available. Certain phrases like "extreme suggestibility", "fear and stimulus", "conditioned terror", "aerosol dispersal" all raised giant red flags to me. Whatever this H.O.U.N.D. was, it didn't sound like anything I wanted to be around. A photograph of the project team posing happily together came up onto the screen, and Sherlock cleared the photo from the screen, rearranging the names into order: Leonard Hansen, Jack O'Mara, Mary Uslowski, Rick Nader, Elaine Dyson.

I ran a hand across my forehead, realizing where the acronym H.O.U.N.D. came from. It's creators.

"HOUND." Stapleton muttered, coming to the same realization.

More information from the project appeared on the screen and words and phrases such as "Paranoia", "Severe frontal lobe damage", "Blood-brain" "Gross cranial trauma", "Dangerous acceleration", "Multiple homicide", all accompanied by photographs of some of the subjects of the project screaming insanely, caused my stomach to twist unpleasantly.

"Jesus." John breathed.

"This is sick," I managed.

"Project HOUND: a new deleriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible." Sherlock read. "They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus; but they shut it down and hid it away in nineteen eighty-six."

"Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on." Stapleton surmised, half-questioningly.

"And what they did to others. Prolonged exposure drove them insane – made them almost uncontrollably aggressive."

"So someone's been doing it again – carrying on the experiments?" John asked.

"Attempting to refine it, perhaps, for the last twenty years."

"Who?" Stapleton asked.

"Well, obviously someone who's connected to both the project and Baskerville." I said, still looking at the screen. "The question is, how to find out their identity?"

John nodded at the screen, indicating the names of the project leaders. "Those names mean anything to you?"

"No, not a thing." Stapleton shook her head.

Sherlock sighed, "Five principal scientists, twenty years ago."

He pulled up the photograph of the team and began zooming in on individuals within it. The closer footage showed that they were all wearing identical sweatshirts. Looming out of a diamond pattern in the center of the sweatshirts was a large snarling wolf's head and the legend "H.O.U.N.D." printed underneath. Sherlock continued to zoom in and out of the photo to look more closely at the faces.

"Maybe our friend's somewhere in the back of the picture – someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986..." He stopped, rolling his eyes slightly. "Maybe somebody who says "cell phone" because of time spent in America. You were right, Diana."

I grinned, "I do love hearing those words coming out of your mouth. I knew something was off with Frankland."

"Oh my God. Bob Frankland." Stapleton gasped. "But Bob doesn't even work on ... I mean, he's a virologist. This was chemical warfare."

"It's where he started, though ... and he's never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work. Nice of him to give us his number." Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out Bob's card. "Let's arrange a little meeting."

He walked away from the computer, and John walked closer to it, looking at the last image – a very tight close-up of one of the sweatshirts. Stitched below the "H.O.U.N.D." legend is the name of the American town and state where the project was based: "Liberty, In". The words that Henry said he saw in his dream. But how could Henry have known about that, if he did at all? Something was missing, and without it we couldn't solve the case. I just hoped Sherlock had made the connection. Just then, John's phone began to ring. He dug it out of his pocket and frowns, apparently not recognizing the number, but answered anyways.

"Hello?" He asked, pausing to hear their reply. "Who's this?"

After he heard the reply, he looked to Sherlock and me. "It's Louise Mortimer." He turned back to the phone. Louise, what's wrong?"

We waited to hear his reply, but only got a "What?"

"Where-where are you?" He asked after a few more moments. He listened for her response. "Right: stay there. We'll get someone to you, okay?"

Lowering his phone, John began to text.

"Henry?" Sherlock asked.

"He's attacked her." John replied.

"What?" I was shocked.

"Gone?" Sherlock pressed.

"Mmm."

"There's only one place he'll go to: back to where it all started." Sherlock raised his phone to his ear. "Lestrade. Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun."

We got to the Hollow just in time to see Henry bring his pistol up and open his mouth as he aimed the muzzle towards it.

"No, Henry, no! No!" Sherlock cried.

We scrambled down the slope, shining our flashlights at him. Henry stood up and stumbled backwards, waving the pistol vaguely in our direction.

"Get back. Get – get away from me!" He cried, his voice high-pitched and hysterical.

"Easy, Henry. Easy. Just relax." John said softly.

"I know what I am. I know what I tried to do!" Henry wailed.

"Just put the gun down. It's okay."

"No, no, I know what I am!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do, Henry. It's all been explained to you, hasn't it – explained very carefully." Sherlock said as soothingly as he could manage.

"What?"

"Someone needed to keep you quiet; needed to keep you as a child to reassert the dream that you'd both clung on to, because you had started to remember." He began to step closer to Henry. "Remember now, Henry. You've got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy."

Henry's gun hand began to droop momentarily, but he raised it again, his face full of his struggle to understand. "I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought ..." He began to cry in anguish, "Oh Je... oh Jesus, I don't – I don't know any more!"

Sobbing, he bent forward and aimed the muzzle into his mouth again.

"No, Henry! Henry, for God's sake!" John cried, lurching towards him.

"Henry, remember." Sherlock said urgently, "_Liberty In._ Two words; two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago."

Henry began to calm a little, but still remained hunched over with the gun's muzzle against his mouth.

"You'd started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn't an animal, was it, Henry?"

Henry starts to straighten up, blinking as Sherlock's words began to make sense.

"Not a monster." Sherlock continued.

Henry turned to look at him.

"A man."

Henry's eyes widened as the memories began to flood into his mind. He gaped at Sherlock as the truth reasserted itself in his mind.

"You couldn't cope. You were just a child, so you rationalized it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped; driven out of your mind so that no-one would believe a word that you said."

John stepped forward quietly, holding out his hand encouragingly towards Henry as Lestrade trotted down the slope towards us.

"Sherlock!" He called out.

"Okay, it's okay, mate." John said gently, carefully taking the pistol from Henry.

"But we saw it: the hound, last night." Henry said tearfully. "We s... we, we, we did, we saw ..."

"Yeah, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that's how it works."

Henry stared at him in confusion. Sherlock returned his look sympathetically.

"But there never was any monster."

But an anguished howl ringing out in the woods above us contradicted him. Our heads snapped up, John and Lestrade aiming their flashlights upwards to the top of the Hollow. I could just make out a low shape slowly stalking along the rim and snarling.

"That's impossible," I breathed.

"Sherlock ..." John said urgently.

Sherlock stared up in disbelief as Henry turned to him, horrified.

"No." Henry wailed in panic. "No, no, no, no!"

He backed away as Sherlock tried simultaneously to hold out a calming hand towards him while keeping his own flashlight shining up towards the creature above us.

"Henry, Henry ..." He tried to calm him.

"Sherlock ..." John repeated.

The creature continued to slink along the rim of the Hollow as Henry began to scream in abject terror. He crumpled to his knees, continually screaming, "No!"

"Henry!" John cried out.

The hound turned towards the Hollow and looked down at us, snarling viciously. Its eyes glowed in the light from the flashlights as Henry continued to wail.

"Shit!" Lestrade said as he stared up at the creature.

John turned and shined his torch into his face. "Greg, are you seeing this?"

Greg glanced at him momentarily, his expression answering the question. John turned to me.

"Diana, are you?"

"I wish I wasn't." I breathed, unable to tear my eyes away from it, afraid of what it might do.

Sherlock took a quick look around, catching Lestrade and my expressions before turning back to stare up at the hound."

"Right: they're not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that? What is it?" John said forcefully.

As Henry continued to wail behind us, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut for a brief moment, trying to handle the overload in his mind. He stared upwards again.

"All right! It's still here ..." He panted heavily for a moment before pulling himself together "... but it's just a dog. Henry! It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!"

The hound apparently disagreed, letting out another vicious howl.

"Oh my God." Lestrade stumbled backwards.

The hound turned and leapt a short way down the slope, its eyes flashing red in the torchlight.

"Oh, Christ!"

"Will someone fucking shoot it?" I cried, hating myself for having left my gun at the inn.

We stared at it as it stops again, its red glowing eyes now clearly visible as it opened its mouth and revealed a mouthful of long pointed teeth that you would never see on any dog. Its snarl was completely terrifying. Henry had fallen silent, gazing up at it as if he knew that it was going to kill him shortly. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, having heard movement behind him. He rushed towards the human figure, who was wearing a breathing mask with a clear visor over his face. He grabbed at the mask and ripped it upwards to fully reveal the man's face.

"No!" Sherlock cried in horror.

I couldn't see who the man was, not daring to keep my eyes on them long enough to find out. I was far too concerned with the demon dog in front of me. The hound growled ominously again.

"It's not you!" Sherlock was frantic. "You're not here!"

I could hear the knocking sound as Sherlock head-butted the stranger. I looked over for a split second, just long enough to see Bob Frankland on the ground.

"The fog." Sherlock said, realization lacing his voice.

"What?" John asked, also not looking away from the hound.

"It's the fog! The drug: it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that's what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it's the fog! A chemical minefield!"

We all tried to cover our mouths as best as we could, fruitlessly attempting to stop the drug from getting into our systems. The hound stalked closer to us, snarling.

"For God's sake, kill it! Kill it!" Frankland cried.

The hound looked as if it were winding itself up to attack. Greg aimed his pistol and fired three times, all of the bullets flying past it. The beast flinched momentarily, but rose up and leapt towards us. John, however, fired and struck the hound, the impact throwing it backwards as it squealed in pain and crashed to the ground, unmoving. We watched anxiously for any signs of movement as Sherlock ran over to Henry and pushed him towards the hound.

"Look at it, Henry."

"No, no, no!" Henry tried to resist.

"Come on, look at it!"

He pulled Henry forward, shining his flashlight on it to let Henry see it was nothing more than a huge dog. Henry stared at it for a moment before turning back to where Frankland is still holding his injured face.

"It's just ... you bastard." Henry hurled himself at Frankland, screaming with rage. "You bastard!"

Henry threw Frankland to the ground, still screaming as John and Lestrade ran over and tried to pull him off.

"Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?"

"Because dead men get listened to." Sherlock said as they managed to pull Henry off. "He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here." He held his arms out wide and spun slowly in a circle as he gestured around the Hollow. "Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once." He laughed with delight. "Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you. It's been brilliant."

"Seriously?" I breathed.

"Sherlock ..." John warned.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning towards him.

John glared at him pointedly. "Timing."

"Not good?"

"No, no, it's – it's okay. It's fine, because this means ..." Henry took a step towards Frankland. John moved with him, ready to intervene if he should try to attack him again. "... this means that my dad was right."

Frankland got up onto his knees as Henry attempted to move towards him. John and Lestrade both put a gentle hand onto his shoulders to keep him back.

"He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him – because he was right, and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment." Henry finished tearfully.

Frankland stood up, but before he could say anything a savage snarl came from behind us. We spun towards the dog as it whined in pain but got up off the ground. John aimed and fired twice, sending it down again. Frankland took the opportunity of the distraction to turn and run off in the opposite direction.

"He's getting away!" I cried, chasing after him.

"Frankland!" Sherlock cried as he followed.

Frankland ran through the woods as I followed in hot pursuit, Sherlock and John just behind me, Lestrade and Henry a little behind them.

"Frankland!" Sherlock yelled again.

"It's no use, Frankland!" I managed, starting to feel slightly winded as I started to catch up. "I'm faster than you."

Frankland reaching a barbed wire fence surrounding the minefield, not hesitating to jumps over. His feet tangled in the wire and he fell to the ground on the other side. I slid to a stop, recognizing the location in front of me, the damp ground giving out as I turned into a baseball player sliding to a base. I pulled myself up just in time to see Frankland abruptly stop, standing absolutely still. It only took me a second to realize why; he had activated a pressure mine. As the others caught up, skidding to a halt as they realized the danger as well, Frankland deliberately lifted his foot. We ducked, Sherlock grabbing me to shield me as a massive explosion ripped into the air. As the blast died down, Henry sunk back against a nearby tree while Sherlock gazed across the minefield.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Thanks you guys for all the reviews! Just warning you: the pacing will be off when it comes to Reichenbach so I'll be updating this more often than I planned. I'll try to make it as consistent as possible.**

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We sat outside the inn the next morning, eating breakfast and relaxing after the events of the previous night. Billy brought out a couple of plates full of food and set it on the table in front of us.

"Mmm. Thanks, Billy." John said.

As Billy walked away, Sherlock brought over two mugs and put one down on the table for John. I was having orange juice; I wasn't going to take any chances with sugar for a while.

"So they didn't have it put down, then – the dog." Sherlock mused.

"Obviously." John said with a half full mouth. "Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it."

"I see."

"No you don't." John smiled.

"No, I don't. Sentiment?"

"Sentiment!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh."

"Listen: what happened to me in the lab?" John asked as Sherlock sat down.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then turned around and reached for a box of sauce sachets. I could tell by the look on his face he was worried about how he was going to explain it.

"D'you want some sauce with that?"

"I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said."

"You must have been dosed with it elsewhere, when you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve; and they were carrying the gas, so ..." Sherlock rummaged through the satchets. "Um, ketchup, was it, or brown ...?"

"Hang on: you thought it was in the sugar."

"Oh come on John," I chuckled lightly.

"You said after the case," He grinned slightly at me, turning back to Sherlock." You were convinced it was in the sugar."

Sherlock looked away again. "Better get going, actually." He checked his watch. "There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want ..."

John turned back to me, finally realizing the truth.

"Oh God. It was you two. You locked me in that bloody lab."

"We had to." Sherlock told him. "It was an experiment."

"An experiment?" John raised his voice, turning back to Sherlock.

"Shhh." Sherlock shushed, looking at the people nearby.

"I was terrified, Sherlock." John said quieter, still furious. "I was scared to death."

"I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee, then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore."

John sighed in exasperation.

"It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions – well, literally."

"We were watching you the entire time," I tried to reassure him. "All the sounds were recorded and you were never in any danger."

"I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one." Sherlock said nonchalantly.

John looked up from his plate.

"You know what I mean."

John went back to eating. "But it wasn't in the sugar."

"No, well, I wasn't to know you'd already been exposed to the gas." Sherlock shrugged.

"So you got it wrong."

"No."

"Mmm. You were wrong. It wasn't in the sugar. You got it wrong."

"A bit. It won't happen again."

John sighed as he continued eating, "Any long-term effects?"

"None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it. We all will."

"Think I might have taken care of that already." John chuckled.

"Aw, guys, come on. I'm trying to eat here," I groaned. "No poop jokes at the table. I mean really, how old are you?"

Sherlock snorted with laughter, looking across to a nearby table where Gary is pouring coffee for two other customers. He smiled apologetically to Sherlock, who put his mug on the table and stood up.

"Where're you going?" John asked.

"Won't be a minute. Gotta see a man about a dog." He smiled as he walked away.

"How much do you want to bet he won't be sensitive about it?" John asked as soon as Sherlock was out of earshot.

"Bum odds," I grinned. "We both know Sherlock. He'll probably start off by telling them you shot it."

John's smile faded slightly, "Well, at least I got my food before they had a chance to spit in it."

Everything was relatively normal, until we were called in to recover a painting stolen from an auction house. The Gallery Director made a big deal about its recovery, even calling a small conference to thank Sherlock. The painting was worth £1.7million, but Sherlock had never gotten any kind of recognition for proving the £30million Dutch Master was a fake. Art people were weird.

"Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." The gallery director said as we stood near the painting.

The patrons applauded, and the Director walked over and gave a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock.

"A small token of our gratitude." He said.

Sherlock took the box and looked at it. "Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons."

"He means thank you." John told the director.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked.

I pinched the back of his arm, causing him to jump slightly.

"Just say it." John said, his voice taking on a slight dad tone.

Sherlock turned to the director, giving him an insincere, "Thank you."

He started to walk away but John and I held him back.

"Hey." John said as he pushed him lightly back into place.

Sherlock stopped unwillingly as the press started taking photographs. John and I smiled while Sherlock just stood there. I figured he'd be glad to get a photograph of him without the deerstalker.

A week later we were stood in front of the house of a prominent banker. He had been kidnapped and Sherlock, John and I had rescued him. A huge crowd gathered for the press conference, outside the banker's house, and the rescued man stood with his arms around his wife and young son. Sherlock, John and I stood uncomfortably by while the press filmed and photographed us. It wouldn't have been as bad if they weren't so damn close to us.

"Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal," the banker told the press. "And we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes."

As the public applauded, the man's son smiled and offered a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock. He took it and rattled it briefly.

"Tie pin." Sherlock muttered to us. "I don't wear ties."

"Shh." John warned.

"Just fucking take it," I muttered through a forced smile for the cameras.

A few days after that we were called to yet another press conference after we caught the man responsible for the banker's kidnap. We were standing in Scotland Yard, Lestrade addressing a press conference as Sherlock, John and I stood nearby. From where we were standing we could see Donovan and Anderson at the back of the room.

"Peter Ricoletti: number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty-two. But we got him; and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads ... with all his customary diplomacy and tact," Lestrade finished, a slight bite on the last word.

Sherlock smiled insincerely towards Lestrade while John leaned closer to Sherlock.

"Sarcasm."

"Yes." Sherlock replied.

As the press applauded, Greg walked over to Sherlock and handed him a gift-wrapped package, smiling cheerfully.

"We all chipped in." He informed Sherlock.

As Sherlock tore open the wrapping paper, I noticed Sally and Anderson grinning expectantly. Sherlock pulled out a deerstalker hat.

"Oh!" He attempted to smile.

"Put the hat on!" A couple reporters yelled.

"Yeah, Sherlock, put it on!" Lestrade agreed, enjoying the situation.

Sherlock looked at the reporters as if he'd like to kill them. John cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Just get it over with." He said quietly.

Glowering at him, Sherlock shoved the wrapping paper into his hands, then unhappily puts the hat on his head. Flashbulbs went mad and everyone applauded. At the back of the room, Sally clapped with sarcastic delight as Anderson, the douche, grinned smugly. I shot the most evil smile I could manage with the cameras around in their direction.

"I'm gonna kill them," I muttered through my smile, causing John to nudge me in the elbow.

Sherlock smiled at the press through gritted teeth and glanced at Greg as if promising him a world of pain later.

We camped out at Baker Street following the Scotland Yard press conference. John was sitting on the sofa reading the papers while Sherlock, wearing his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, stomped across the room and throws the Daily Star onto the pile of newspapers on the coffee table. I rolled my eyes, perching myself on the book covered table.

"Boffin" Sherlock said indignantly as he threw the paper down. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes".

"Everybody gets one." John told him, turning a page.

"One what?"

"Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick'. Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first sentence."

John turned to the relevant page as Sherlock walked over to the fireplace and picked up the deerstalker, holding it up and punching it angrily.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" He asked himself.

"Bachelor John Watson?" John read from the paper.

"What sort of hat is it anyway?"

"Bachelor? What the hell are they implying?"

Sherlock held up the hat and twisted it back and forth rapidly, "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker." John said, glancing up briefly before returning to the paper. "Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson ..."

"You stalk a deer with a hat?" Sherlock asked. "What are you gonna do – throw it?"

John looked at another part of the article, "... confirmed bachelor John Watson!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?" Sherlock surmised.

"What's my nickname?" I asked John, trying to get his attention off the 'bachelor' nickname.

He scanned the article, "Uh, _femme fatale_. Why do you get the good nickname?" He flung his hands up in despair.

"Femme fatale? What have I ever done that's seductive?" I asked.

"You breathe," Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the cap.

"Oh," I replied, a small blush creeping onto my cheeks. "Thank you."

"Okay, this is too much." John told us. "We need to be more careful."

"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John." Sherlock said, accurately skimming the hat across the room to John, who doesn't even have to lift his hand to catch it. "What do you mean, 'more careful'?"

"I mean this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective anymore." John held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "You're this far from famous."

"Oh, it'll pass." Sherlock replied, slumping down into his armchair and folding his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth.

"It'd better pass." John replied. "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you."

Sherlock lowered his hands and looked more closely at John. "It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?"

John held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news." John told him

"And you?" Sherlock asked as he turned towards me, not replying to John's statement.

"What about me?" I asked.

"Does it bother you? To hear what people say about me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I exchanged a glance with John before looking back at Sherlock, "Because I know what they'll say when they turn on you. They'll call you a fraud and say one man couldn't possibly be that clever. But I know the real you. I know you are phenomenal and brilliant and I wish others gave you the chance to prove that you are human because I know you are whether you believe it or not."

Sherlock gave a small smile before taking my hands in his, pressing my knuckles to his lips, "Thank you."

It was another couple of days of peace before the real mayhem started. Sherlock and I were in the kitchen; he was looking in his microscope as I was making some tea. John was currently in Sherlock's shower; Sherlock had performed an experiment involving lord knows what and clogged the pipes that led to John's shower. Sherlock's phone in the living room trilled a text alert, something it had been doing that entire morning. John walked out of the bathroom in his bathrobe, toweling his wet hair.

"It's your phone." John informed him as he passed us.

"Mm. Keeps doing that." Sherlock replied, disinterestedly.

John walked into the living room past the mannequin in a suit which was hanging by its neck from the ceiling and sat down in his chair, picking up a newspaper. The mannequin swayed gently in the breeze.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" John asked as he flicked through the paper.

Sherlock looked up and glanced across to the mannequin. "Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." He picked up an old hardback book from the table and slammed it shut in a flurry of dust before going back to his microscope. "Bow Street Runners: missed everything."

"Pressing case, is it?" John asked sarcastically.

"They're all pressing 'til they're solved."

All was silent for about another half hour, until Sherlock's phone trilled another text alert. I was standing behind Sherlock, sipping my tea and rubbing his back while he worked. John lowered his newspaper, sighing slightly.

"I'll get it, shall I?" John said rather tetchily.

He got up and walked over to the phone, picking it up and checking the message as Sherlock continued to look into his microscope. I looked over to John when he didn't move and noticed his face slowly fills with shock.

"John?" I asked apprehensively.

He turned and brought the phone to the kitchen, holding it out to Sherlock.

"Here."

Sherlock didn't look up, "Not now, I'm busy."

"Sherlock ..." John pressed.

"Not now."

"He's back." John stated, breathing heavily.

Sherlock lifted his head and took the phone. I looked over his shoulder to see the message.

_Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x._

Sherlock's eyes widened and he sunk back on his chair and gazed into space. I ran a hand through my hair worriedly. I had almost forgotten about him. Things were definitely not good if he had come back.

Later, Sherlock, John and I arrived at the Tower and were walked into the security booth to watch the recorded security footage taken from behind Jim as he stuck the gum onto the glass. From that distance it wasn't clear what he pushed into the gum.

"That glass is tougher than anything." Lestrade told us.

"Not tougher than crystallized carbon." Sherlock informed him. "He used a diamond."

Greg adjusted the footage, which shifted to a recording taken from the other side of the glass. The footage was put into reverse, showing the glass rising back up into place before it shattered. As Jim pulled the fire extinguisher back again and the glass became whole. With the smiley face inside the "O", Jim had written: GET SHERLOCK.

John and I both turned and stared at Sherlock, but his eyes were fixed on the screen.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Wooo...I've been a busy giiiirl! And a very sleepy girl too!**

**A continuing thank you for your reviews guys! They really mean a lot to me!**

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It was the morning of the trial, and I was more nervous than I needed to be. I was dressed in a simple black dress with a cinched blazer and the ring my parents gave me was circled around my finger. Currently I was staring at the necklace Jim had given me. I groan, grabbing the necklace and putting it on. Hopefully I would be able to play mind games too and get whatever I could out of Moriarty if I was able to talk to him. I walked out to the foyer just as Sherlock came downstairs and went to the front door.

"Fancy necklace," he noted, looking at my neck.

"Yeah, other Christmas gift," I told him, following him to the door.

Sherlock stopped and turned to the side; I stood just to the right of him to allow John to pass us and reach out towards the door.

"Ready?" John asked him.

"Yes."

Bracing himself, John opened the door. Police officers attempted to hold back the large crowd of journalists who immediately started photographing us and calling out questions as the police cleared the way and allowed us through to the waiting police car. We got into the back and the car pulled away, racing off with its sirens wailing.

"Remember ..." John started as the car went around Trafalgar Square.

"Yes." Sherlock replied instantly.

"Remember ..." john insisted.

"Yes." Sherlock's reply was even quicker this time.

John looked away in frustration, then went for broke and spoke quickly. "Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever ..."

"No." Sherlock said over him.

"... and please, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."

"'Intelligent', fine; let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

"Guys, can we please," I interjected, sighing slightly. "I just want to get this over with."

Sherlock placed a comforting hand on my knee, still looking out the window.

"I'll just be myself." He told John.

"Are you listening to me?" John asked, irritated.

We walked into the courthouse, walking up to the public gallery and taking our seats. Sherlock had gone to the toilets to wash his hands, and wouldn't be coming to sit with us. He was to be downstairs, acting as the star witness. From down below, Jim was brought into the room by his prison escorts and brought to the dock. As a female prison officer came across to check his restraints, he turned his head and murmurs into her ear. I could just barely hear what he was saying.

"Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?"

The officer looked at one of her male colleagues, who nodded in agreement. Looking rather uncomfortable, she slid her fingers into Jim's trouser pocket and pulled out the contents as Jim breathed very close to her face and gazed into her eyes before poking his tongue out. She put what she had found in his pocket – a piece of chewing gum – onto his tongue and he drew his tongue back in and began to chew, smiling at her creepily.

"Thanks."

Jim looked up at the gallery, noticing I was sitting up there. His eyes flicked to my necklace and he raised his eyebrows suggestively, still grinning. My eyebrows furrowed and my stomach started to tighten.

"What a creep," John muttered.

"Yeah," I breathed, wondering if I had done the right thing in trying to play a mind game with Moriarty.

When the trial finally started, Sherlock was called to give his evidence and stood in the witness box. Jim was still nonchalantly chewing on his gum, standing in the dock opposite him.

"A consulting criminal." The prosecuting barrister stated.

"Yes." Sherlock answered briefly.

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating."

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler."

There was muffled laughter from some people in the court, and the prosecuting barrister tried to hide her smile.

"Would you describe him as ..."

"Leading." Sherlock interrupted her.

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness." Sherlock looked towards the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge gave an exasperated sigh. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this during his evidence. John stiffened slightly and I put a hand on his wrist comfortingly. He could sense my tension as well, and put his hand over mine. I chewed my lip nervously.

"Mr. Holmes." The judge warned.

"Ask me how." Sherlock said to the prosecuting barrister. "How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr. Holmes, we're fine without your help." The judge told him.

A woman came into the gallery, natural ginger hair and mousy look about her. John and I looked round at her as she found a seat.

"How would you describe this man – his character?" The prosecuting barrister asked.

"First mistake. "Sherlock raised his eyes and locked his gaze onto Jim. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the center of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

Jim nodded almost imperceptibly in approval of the description. The prosecuting barrister cleared her throat awkwardly.

"And how long ..."

"No, no, don't-don't do that." Sherlock closed his eyes, exasperated. "That's really not a good question."

"Mr. Holmes." The judge said angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up." Sherlock's tone took on a sarcastic air. "I felt we had a special something."

Jim raised his eyebrows in an "ooh!" expression.

"Miss Sorrel," the judge spoke to the prosecuting barrister, "are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?"

"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample." Sherlock informed him.

"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

"Oh, really?"

Sherlock turned his eyes towards the jury box. John raised his free hand to his head in the all-too-recognizable "oh, shit, NO!" gesture. I clenched my jaw, praying to myself for Sherlock not to do what I knew he was going to anyways.

"One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City." He focused on the woman at the far left of the front row. She had a notebook resting on the ledge in front of her, "The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand."

"Mr. Holmes!" the judge warned again.

Sherlock scanned the rings on the jury members' fingers, "Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He turned to the judge. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr. Holmes." The judge was livid now. "You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess."

Sherlock took a breath but couldn't help smiling a little at the acknowledgement of his 'intellectual prowess'. John stared at him sternly as my breathing got a bit ragged. John patted the hand I still had on my wrist, unsuccessfully trying to ease my nerves. Sherlock was going to get himself into trouble; I just knew it.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?"

Sherlock paused as he gave the question some thought, then opened his mouth.

We had to wait a while before Sherlock could be released from custody. As he signed for his personal property, John and I stood beside him. John was leaning back on the desk with his arms folded. I had placed my phone on the counter, rubbing my temple slightly.

"What did I say?" John lectured sternly. "I said, 'Don't get clever'."

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap." Sherlock replied.

"Well you could've been a bit more graceful." I told him. "You do my head in sometimes."

Sherlock took the bag of his items from the custody officer, placing his hand on the small of my back and placing a kiss on my forehead before turning to John.

"Well?" He asked, walking out of the building.

"Well what?" John returned as he and I followed behind.

"You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish."

"Like you said it would be ..." John started, referring to Jim's defending barrister "... he sat on his backside, never even stirred."

"Moriarty's not mounting any defense."

We were walking out of the building towards the street when I stopped short.

"Mother fucker," I rolled my eyes.

"What?" John asked as he and Sherlock turned around.

"I left my phone inside. They've probably confiscated it or something." I groaned. "You two go on home, I'll meet you there."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, it's fine. I'll probably just have to identify it and sign for it or something. You guys go on, I'll be fine."

As the boys walked towards the street, I made my way back into the building. I felt guilty for lying to them. I had left my phone there on purpose, knowing it may have been my only chance to talk to Moriarty. I walked up to the desk, picking up my phone when I got there, thankful they didn't confiscate it.

"I need five minutes with Moriarty." I told the man in charge.

"I'm sorry miss; he's a high-security prisoner. We can't allow anyone to see him."

I stared at him wordlessly, not moving or changing my expression.

"Miss, no one is allowed to see him."

I merely lifted an eyebrow. He sighed.

"Fine, but you'll be escorted by two guards."

"Thank you," I told him.

I followed the two men to the cell where they were keeping Moriarty. I had no idea what I was going to say to him when I got there. Part of me hoped he would just tell me. This was a bad idea, but I couldn't turn back now. I was standing at the cell door.

"Merry Christmas, darling," Moriarty said, smiling as he glanced down at the necklace.

I didn't say anything, giving him the same look I gave the man at the desk.

"Did I hurt your feelings with the gum thing? She didn't mean a thing to me, I swear." He smirked slightly.

"Can you talk to me like a normal person, please?" I asked.

"But Diana, we have an audience."

I rolled my eyes before I turned to the guards, "Leave."

"But miss –"

"I said leave. Do I need to say it in a different language? Verlassen Sie mich. S'en aller. Andare via. Leave."

The men gritted their teeth, but turned and left anyways.

"You've got such fire," Moriarty grinned at me, shaking his head slightly. "God, I've missed you."

"You let yourself get caught. You _let_ yourself be taken in. If you wanted the Crown Jewels you could've taken them and gotten away with it. But you just sat there, waiting for them to get you. And now you're not mounting any defense."

"Guess I'm not so predictable anymore."

"Tell me that's not what this is about."

He laughed lightly. "It's not. This is just part of the game." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Stop involving yourself. I'm doing everything I can to keep you out of this, so stop dragging yourself in."

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"Don't worry; I won't be in here for long." He told me. "I'll come visit you when I'm out."

I smiled dryly, "Okay Jim. Though I don't know how you're going to manage it."

He just smiled, something gleaming behind his eyes that I couldn't quite place.

"I'll see you later, my little Diana."

"Right, tomorrow when they give their verdict."

He shrugged slightly, "And maybe after that."

I sighed, knowing I couldn't get any more out of him while he was in the holding cell.

All throughout the cab ride home, I kept thinking how stupid I was, believing I could've played a mind game with Moriarty. He probably knew it the moment I walked up to his cell. I was such an idiot. I had no business playing this game.

I walked into Sherlock and John's living room just in time to see John flop down in his chair. I was suddenly grateful I told the cabbie to take the fast route.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why." John said as Sherlock began to pace. "All we know is ..."

"... he ended up in custody." Sherlock finished.

He stopped and turned to John as I walked over and sat in Sherlock's chair.

"Don't do that." John said, taking a breath.

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I?"

John pointed to the mirror on the wall as if Sherlock was an idiot for not realizing it was there. Sherlock turned his head and looked at his reflection.

"It's my face."

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we all know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. I don't, which is why I find The Face so annoying."

"Moriarty set himself up," I stated, leaning into the chair.

"She's right," Sherlock said, a hint of pride in his voice. "If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there."

Sherlock started to pace again.

"Somehow this is part of his scheme."

_You have no idea how right you are_, I thought, bringing my fingertips to my temples again.

"Diana, are you alright?" John asked.

"Hmm?"

"You look a bit pale. Well, paler than normal. A bit ill."

"Oh, yeah I guess I'm not feeling to well. I think I just want this thing to be over and done with."

John smiled sympathetically, "We all do."


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews guys! You have no idea how much it means to me to know you're enjoying this!**

**chaosrachel: Sorry, Watson's speech at the grave will remain intact. It's too flippin good to exchange for something else!**

* * *

The next day, I sat by John once more in the public gallery in the Old Bailey. Sherlock had stayed home, figuring his presence wouldn't be appreciated by the judge.

"Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?" The judge asked the defending barrister.

The defending barrister rose to his feet. "Your Honor, we're not calling any witnesses."

There were cries of surprise around the court. John frowned in confusion. I clenched my jaw, figuring this was all part of Jim's plan to escape conviction.

"I don't follow." The judge said. "You've entered a plea of Not Guilty."

"Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defense rests." He sat down.

Jim pursed his lips ruefully at the judge, then turned and looked up to John and me, shrugging at us.

The judge began summing-up speech. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty."

The court adjourned at 10:42. At 10:50, the Clerk of the Court hurried out of a side room up to John and me as we sat on a bench just outside the courtroom.

"They're coming back." He said as he rushed past us.

John looked at his watch. "That's six minutes."

"Surprised it took them that long, to be honest. There's a queue for the loo."

He hurried into the court. John and I exchanged a look before standing up, John took a moment to brace himself and we followed. A few minutes later the Clerk rose to his feet in the courtroom and turned to face the jury.

"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" He asked.

One of the jury members lowered his head and shook it in tiny despairing motions as the foreman stood to her feet and stared at the Clerk unhappily.

"Not Guilty." John raged into his phone. "They found him Not Guilty. No defense, and Moriarty's walked free."

We were descending the steps of the Old Bailey. I chewed my lip nervously, John still speaking to Sherlock on his phone.

"Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You-you know he'll be coming after you. Sher..."

John lowered his phone, glaring at it.

"He hung up on me."

"You really think Moriarty will go after him?" I asked John.

"I think so." John replied grimly.

"Shit, what do we do?" I breathed worriedly.

John sighed heavily, "I have no idea.

/

Sherlock switched the phone off and got up off the sofa. In the kitchen he switched on the kettle and slammed down a small tray beside it, putting a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a teapot and two cups and saucers with teaspoons onto the tray. The kettle came to the boil and switched off; Sherlock made the tea and took the tray to the table beside John's chair. He walked over to his own chair and picked up his violin and bow, beginning to play Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. He heard one of the stairs creak noisily, and he pauses for a moment, knowing Jim was somewhere on the stairs. A couple of seconds later Sherlock resumed from a few notes before where he stopped, standing with his back to the living room door. He kept playing until he heard Jim push the door open, stopping but not yet turning around.

"Most people knock." He shrugged. "But then you're not most people, I suppose." He gestured over his shoulder with his bow towards the table. "Kettle's just boiled."

Jim walked further into the room, bending down to pick up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled." He tossed the apple and caught it, looking around the living room as if searching for a seat. "May I?"

"Please." Sherlock said, turning to face him

He gestured with the end of his bow towards John's chair. Jim immediately walked over to Sherlock's chair and sat in that one instead. Sherlock grimaced slightly, somewhat unnerved. Jim took out a small penknife and started to cut into the apple as Sherlock put down the violin and began to pour tea into the cups.

"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end ..." Jim started.

"... and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it." Sherlock finished.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you. That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?"

Sherlock picked up one of the teacups, adding a splash of milk and turning to offer the cup to Jim. He sat up straighter to take it.

"With me ..." Jim said softly, "... back on the streets." He gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."

He grinned as Sherlock turned away and added milk to his own cup.

"You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring." Jim shook his head in disappointment. "You're on the side of the angels."

He sipped his tea as Sherlock picked up his own cup and stirred his drink.

"Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network."

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalized TV screen and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm. Easy-peasy."

Sherlock sat down in John's chair, lifting his cup close to his mouth. "So how're you going to do it ..." He made a point of blowing gently on his tea. "... burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?" Jim asked softly as Sherlock took a sip of his tea and looked across to the other man. "What's the final problem?" He smiled across his own cup. "I did tell you ... but did you listen?"

He took another sip of tea and put the cup down into the saucer. Setting his hand onto his knee, he began to idly drum his fingers. Sherlock's eyes lowered to watch the movement.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

Sherlock put his cup into its saucer and shrugs, attempting nonchalance. "I dunno."

"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; awfully clever." Jim chuckled in an upper class tone as Sherlock smiled humorlessly as he put his cup back onto the tray. "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But you understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then." Jim told him, putting a piece of the apple he's carved off into his mouth with the flat of the penknife.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?" Sherlock asked.

"No; I want you to prove that you know it."

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."

"Good." Jim said softly.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good. Because ...?"

"Because nothing ... nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown." Jim smiled in delight at Sherlock.

"You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."

"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me." He lifted another piece of apple to his mouth with the penknife. "Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

"Why are you doing all of this?"

"It'd be so funny." Jim mused, still thinking about having a live-in ordinary person, "Maybe I should take little Diana off your hands."

Sherlock tensed up slightly, his hands starting to ball into fists.

"Careful now, Sherlock. You don't want me getting any ideas, do you? Wouldn't want me to catch on just how much you care for her."

Sherlock clenched his jaw slightly, directing the conversation back to where it was, "You don't want money or power – not really."

Jim dug the point of his penknife into the apple.

"What is it all for?"

Jim sat forward and spoke softly, "I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem." He lowered his head. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

Raising his head slowly, he glowered across at Sherlock, who bared his teeth slightly and stood up to buttons his jacket.

"Never liked riddles." Sherlock told him.

Jim stood up as well, and straightening his jacket and locking his gaze onto Sherlock's eyes.

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you."

He continued to gaze at Sherlock, sealing his promise, then slowly turned and walked away. Sherlock didn't move as Jim left the room, but after a few moments he moved towards the apple which Jim left on the arm of his chair, the penknife still stuck in it. He picked it up by the knife handle and looked at it. Jim had dug a large circular piece out of the apple, on the left of the circle he carved an "I" shape while on the right of the circle is a "U" shape, forming the letters "I O U". Sherlock's mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile.

/

It was two months later when Lestrade and Donovan showed up. Sherlock and I were in the living room and John was out running some errands. Lestrade explained the situation: two children were kidnapped. They were just getting to the particulars when John walked in.

"Sherlock, something weird ..." John started, stopping when he saw Lestrade and Donovan. "What's going on?"

"Kidnapping." Sherlock informed him, walking over to the table and starting to type on the laptop.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S." Lestrade expanded.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?" John asked.

"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine."

Sally showed John photographs of the two children.

"They're at St Aldate's."

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey." Donovan explained.

"The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two."

"The kids have vanished."

"The ambassador's asked for you personally."

Sherlock was already on his feet and heading out of the door with his coat over his arm.

"The Reichenbach Hero." Donovan muttered sarcastically.

"Are you okay?" John asked me, noticing my distressed expression.

"You know my thing with kids." I said, following Sherlock.

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity," Lestrade muttered sarcastically, following behind.

"What's her thing with kids?" I heard Donovan ask John as we walked down the stairs.

"She hates seeing them in danger. Sort of like mother mode to the extreme."

Lestrade drove us to the grounds of the boarding school and pulled up outside the front entrance. Two police cars were already there and a woman was standing in front of one of them, leaning against the hood wearing a shock blanket around her shoulders and crying while a uniformed female police officer spoke reassuringly to her. A man, probably a plain clothed police officer, was talking to her but walked away as we got out of the car and approached. The woman blew her nose on her handkerchief.

"It's all right." The female police officer reassured her.

"Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy." Lestrade said quietly to Sherlock.

He stayed back and let Sherlock walk over to the woman on his own.

"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night." Sherlock's voice rose angrily. "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" He grabbed the blanket and abruptly pulled it from around her shoulders. She gasped in fear as he glared furiously at her. "Now quickly, tell me!"

"All the doors and windows were properly bolted." Miss Mackenzie said tearfully, cringing in terror. "No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

Sherlock's demeanor changed instantly and he smiled reassuringly and gently took hold of her shoulders. "I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly." He looked at the nearby police officers as he turned and walked away. "Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now."

She sobbed in distress and the female police officer hurried over to comfort her. Once we got inside the school, Sherlock led us into one of the dormitories.

"Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you. You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?" John mused.

Sherlock didn't reply, looking in a cupboard beside one of the beds and dropping to his knees and peering under the bed.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in." Lestrade informed us.

Sherlock picked up a lacrosse stick lying on the floor and got to his feet while looking at the stick closely. He briefly wielded it as if using it as a weapon, but apparently decided it wasn't used in that way and dropped it to the floor again.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place." Lestrade continued.

Sherlock walked over to a wooden trunk and opened the lid. Amongst the other items inside the trunk he found a large brown envelope with a wax seal on the back, already broken as if someone has opened the envelope. Inside was a large hardback book. Checking the envelope carefully first, he took the book out and looked at the cover. The book is "Grimm's Fairy Tales." He looked along the edges of the book and riffled the pages quickly. Finding nothing of interest, he looked up.

"Show me where the brother slept."

We were taken to another smaller dormitory and Sherlock began to look around, going to stand beside a bed which faced the door. The door had a frosted glass pane in it. He looked towards the door while gesturing down to the bed.

"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

"Okay, so ..." Lestrade trailed off.

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognize, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon."

He walked outside the door and pulled the door almost closed, raising his hand and pointing his fingers as if they were a gun, showing us how it would be seen through the frosted glass. He pushed the door open and walked back into the room.

"What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" Sherlock walked around the bed, looking at the boy's possessions. "This little boy; this particular little boy ..." He looked at the bedside table, "... who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" John half-asked.

Sherlock began sniffing noisily. He picked up a cricket bat leaning against the nearby cupboard and sniffed along both sides of it. Putting the bat down again, he squatted and sniffed around the bedside table, then reached under the bed and found an almost empty glass bottle of linseed oil. He looked up.

"Get Anderson." He said sternly.

Not long afterwards the room was darkened as much as possible. Sherlock passed an ultraviolet light over the wall beside the boy's bed where the words "HELP US" were written on the wall, only now visible in the light.

"Linseed oil." Sherlock stated.

"Not much use. Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper." Anderson told him.

"Brilliant, Anderson."

"Really?"

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock said as he pointed downwards, shining the light close to the wooden floorboards. "The floor."

There were several sets of illuminated footprints of varying sizes leading towards the door. Sherlock followed them slowly.

"He made a trail for us!" John exclaimed.

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them."

John looked at the shape of some of the smaller footprints. "On, what, tiptoe?"

"Gun to his head," I stated.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, continuing to walk slowly out into the corridor, which was also blacked out, as he followed the footsteps. Anderson walked beside him with another ultraviolet light. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

"Oh my god," I moaned lightly, putting a hand to my mouth in dread.

A few yards along the corridor the glowing footsteps stopped.

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here." Anderson said as Sherlock stopped. He turned back to face Sherlock. "Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson – nothing." Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a breath and speaking rapidly. "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

He reached over to the closest window and tore down the blackout material that was stuck across it. Daylight flooded back into the corridor. Putting the light onto the window sill, Sherlock knelt down and took his wallet of tools and a small lidded plastic Petri dish from his inside pocket. As the police went back towards the bedroom, he put the dish on the floor, opened the wallet and chuckled contentedly. John squatted down beside him as I leaned against the wall.

"Having fun?" John asked.

"Starting to."

"Maybe don't do the smiling."

Sherlock lifted his head.

"Kidnapped children?" John reminded him.

Sherlock lowered his head again and concentrated on scraping some of the dried linseed oil and floor wax loose with a small scalpel, using tweezers to pick up the loosened pieces and putting them into the container. When he stood up and noticed that I was chewing my lip to the point of little beads of blood leaking out, he gently took the nape of my neck in his hand and inclined my head to his lips.

"We'll find them," he murmured, his lips brushing my skin.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: You guys are amazing for your reviews! I'm astounded every time I read how much you love this story! I love you all!**

* * *

Sherlock, John and I rode in a taxi to St. Bart's. Sherlock wanted to analyze the floor scrapings. I rested my hands in my palms, my elbows propped up against my knees, as Sherlock rubbed my back, half-absentmindedly.

"But how did he get past the CCTV?" John asked. "If all the doors were locked ..."

"He walked in when they weren't locked." Sherlock informed him.

"But a stranger can't just walk into a school like that."

"Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What's one more stranger among that lot? He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide."

We caught Molly just as she was walking down a corridor, away from the labs.

"Molly!" Sherlock greeted her.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out."

Sherlock put his hands onto her shoulders and turned her back the way she came, "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date." She protested

Sherlock put a hand on her back to start her walking again, "Cancel it. You're having lunch with me."

He reaching into his coat pockets, dramatically producing a bag of Quavers crisps from each pocket.

"What?"

"Need your help." Sherlock said as he put the crisps back in his pockets. "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

He turned and smiled back at Molly as we reached the fire doors at the other end of the corridor. Molly has stopped dead a few paces back.

"It's Moriarty?" John asked.

"Course it's Moriarty." Sherlock informed him.

"Er, Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend." Molly interjected. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Quavers at her again before continuing on through the fire door.

I laughed lightly as she stared after him in utter bewilderment.

"Molly Hooper," I said as I gripped the almost closed fire door, "the woman who broke up with the most dangerous man in London. You're my hero."

She stood in shock as I walked through the door.

/

Shortly afterwards, wearing her lab coat, Molly pushed her way through the door into the lab, weighed down by the huge pile of books and files she was carrying. As she staggered into the room, Sherlock sat at the bench in front of a microscope. John and I were standing at the other side of the bench.

"Oil, John." Sherlock said as he opened the plastic Petri dish and took out one of the samples with tweezers. "The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty."

He dropped the sample into a test tube which had some liquid in the bottom. The fluid began to fizz. He suctioned up some of the liquid and dropped it onto a slide.

"All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to."

He looked at the slide under the microscope. Diana moved off away from the work area, occupying her hands with sketches.

"I need that analysis." Sherlock spoke to Molly.

Molly squeezed some liquid into a glass dish and applied some Litmus paper to it. The paper turned blue. "Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

"Yes."

She turned away unhappily, but not before seeing the list he had begun to make.

1. Chalk

2. Asphalt

3. Brick Dust

4. Vegetation

"I ... owe ... you." He murmured softly as he looked at a new slide, turning his head to look at a computer screen nearby. "Glycerol molecule." He sighed heavily as he struggled to identify the item "What are you?"

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?" Molly asked as she stood beside him, typing on the laptop.

John walked across the lab on the other side of the bench, comforting an increasingly stressed Diana. Sherlock raised his eyes from the microscope and watched them.

"You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working." Molly pressed.

"Nothing. Mental note." Sherlock replied, looking back to the microscope.

Molly looked at him. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She closed her eyes, embarrassed. "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

Molly cringed, but continued. "When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly ..." Sherlock said sternly.

"You look sad ..." She glanced towards John and Diana "... when you think they can't see you."

Sherlock's eyes lifted from the microscope and drifted towards John and Diana. They were talking, and Diana was wiping a few stray tears from her eyes. The stress of the possibility of losing more children was taking a toll on her. Both were unaware of the conversation. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Molly.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked.

He opened his mouth, but she interrupted before he could speak.

"And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

Sherlock blinked and really looked at her, possibly for the first time since he had known her.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She flinched and looks away briefly. "No, I just mean ... I mean if there's anything you need ..." She shook her head. "It's fine."

She turned away. Sherlock was a bit shaken.

"Wh-what…what could I need from you?" He asked.

Molly turned back to him. "Nothing." She shrugged. "I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually."

" ... Thank you." Sherlock managed hesitantly.

He frowned and turned his head away, wanting to return to his work. Molly started to walk towards the door.

"I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?"

He started to open his mouth, but she turned back and beat him to it. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll ..."

"I know you don't."

She turned and walked away, leaving the room. He watched her go, then gazed into the distance thoughtfully for a moment before looking back to his microscope.

/

John began looking through police photographs taken at the school as I took in deep breaths, trying to calm myself. He paused at one of the inside of the wooden trunk which showed the envelope with the wax seal, and another with a close-up of the seal. I looked over, noticing the stop in movement.

"John, you okay?" I asked.

"Sherlock." John called.

"Hmm?"

"This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one." John said, walking over to where he put his jacket.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"On our doorstep. Found it today." He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and looked at it. "Yes, and look at that." He brought the envelope round the bench and gave it to Sherlock. I walked over for a better look. "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."

Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out some of the contents.

"Breadcrumbs." Sherlock observed.

"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back." John informed him.

"A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales." Sherlock's eyes widened. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's 'Hansel and Gretel.' What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me ...Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."

Sherlock put the envelope down and adjusted his microscope before starting to look into it again. "The fifth substance: it's part of the tale."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The witch's house." Sherlock told us.

"What?" John asked.

"The glycerol molecule. PGPR!"

"What's that?"

Sherlock leapt to his feet. "It's used in making chocolate."

We made our way as fast as we could to Scotland Yard. Lestrade handed a sheet of paper to Sherlock as he led us into the department's main office. "This fax arrived an hour ago."

There was a large handwritten note on the paper saying: HURRY UP THEY'RE DYING!

"What have you got for us?"

"Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect." Sherlock said, handing the list to Lestrade.

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation ... What the hell is this? Chocolate?"

"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory."

"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?"

"No. No-no-no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk; chalky clay – that's a far thinner band of geology."

"Brick dust?"

"Building site. Bricks from the nineteen fifties."

Lestrade rubbed his face in despair. "There's thousands of building sites in London."

"I've got people out looking."

"So have I."

"Homeless network – faster than the police." Sherlock smiled snidely. "Far more relaxed about taking bribes."

Sitting at a desk nearby, Anderson looked up and rolled his eyes. Sherlock's phone trilled a text alert, followed by several more alerts. He brandished his phone triumphantly at Greg as the messages continued to pour in. Smiling smugly, he lifted the phone up, flicking his eyes across to the phone to look at each photograph. One of the photos attracted his particular attention.

"John." Sherlock held the phone out to show him the picture. "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches." He paused for a moment, thinking "Addlestone."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything."

He turned and hurried out of the office, John and I following close behind.

Several police cars raced to the disused factory and the police officers, along with Sherlock, John and me, ran inside the dark building. Everyone switched on flashlights and Sally coordinated the police as they started to search in all directions.

"You, look over there. Look everywhere. Okay, spread out, please. Spread out."

Greg led another team, including Sherlock and John, into another part of the factory. Sally walked up to me as I ventured out on my own.

"John told me about your kid thing." She said.

"What kid thing?"

"Your extreme maternal nature. Might be good for the freak."

I half-smiled, resisting the urge to chew her out for her continuing insult, knowing she meant it in a complimentary way.

"Let's just find the kids, yeah?"

We walked along quietly, shining our flashlights in every direction. Something caught my ear and I held an arm out, stopping her.

"What?" she whispered.

"Light breathing, staggered," I whispered. "A small scared child desperate to keep quiet because they don't know who's come for them this time."

Sally moved her flashlight, seeing something in the light. She nudged me lightly and I followed the beam of light. We moved closer and saw a little girl sitting on the ground with her brother's head in her lap. His eyes are closed. The girl looked around at us.

"Oh sweet Jesus," I breathed, kneeling down to the girl. "Claudette, my name is Diana. I'm here to help. I'm going to take care of your brother, okay?"

She nodded lightly as I gently took him in my arms.

"Over here!" Donovan yelled out to the other officers.

I could hear the rapid footsteps as the other officers ran towards us.

"This is Sally," I told Claudette as the officers reached us. "She'll look after you."

"I've got you. Don't worry." Donovan said, reaching towards her.

Donovan and I carried the children to the ambulance. We handed them over to the paramedics, and I ran my hands through my hair as tears of relief pricked my eyes when the doors to the ambulance closed.

"You did good in there," Donovan said, although it sounded as if it was paining her to say so.

"Thanks," I sniffed, turning on my heel to walk back towards Sherlock.

Sherlock paced outside an office in Scotland Yard while John and I sat nearby. The door to the office opened and Sally and Greg walked out.

"Right, then. The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn..." Donovan said sarcastically.

John and I stood up, walking over to the others. Greg cast a serious look at Sherlock.

"Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to ..."

"... not be myself." Sherlock finished for him.

"Yeah. Might be helpful."

Sherlock looked round to John and me, doing everything but roll his eyes, and reached up and undid the collar of his coat, folding it down flat before leading us into the office. Claudette was sitting at the table looking down into her lap, a female liaison officer sitting beside her stroking her arm reassuringly.

"Claudette, I ..."

He was cut off as she lifted her head, taking one look at him and began to scream in terror.

"No-no, I know it's been hard for you."

She continued screaming and scrambled to get away while pointing at him.

"Claudette, listen to me ..."

"Out. Get out!" Lestrade yelled, grabbing Sherlock's arm and bundling him out of the room as the girl's screams continued.

Moments later, we stood in another office, Sherlock standing at the window looking out into the night.

"Makes no sense." John mused.

"The kid's traumatized. Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper." Lestrade surmised.

"So what's she said?"

"Hasn't uttered another syllable." Donovan told us.

"And her brother?" I asked.

"No, he's unconscious; still in intensive care." Lestrade sighed. "Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people." He looked round to Donovan, John and me. "Come on."

John and I walked outside, waiting for Sherlock to join us.

"Ah." John raised his hand to hail the approaching taxi as Sherlock walked up to us.

As we walked to the edge of the curb, John looked round to Sherlock.

"You okay?"

"Thinking."

The taxi pulled up at the curb.

"This is my cab." Sherlock stated. "You two get the next one."

"What?" I asked.

"Why?" John pressed.

"You might talk." He stated, getting in and closing the door.

The taxi pulled away, leaving John and me to stare after it. John shook his head, sighing in disbelief.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Don't worry dear readers, I won't be stopping at the end of 'Reichenbach'. That would be too cruel, even for me!**

* * *

John and I rode in the cab in silence. We were both a little put on edge after the events of the day. As we rounded the corner , I saw Sherlock standing in the street and a body on the ground.

"Stop the car!" I yelled.

The driver pulled to a stop, and John and I jumped out and hurries towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John called.

We called an ambulance; Sherlock stood and twitched his fingers fretfully as the ambulance crew wheeled the man's body away.

"That ... it's him. It's him." John stated. "Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us."

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned. That was the last thing we needed at a time like this.

"He died because I shook his hand." Sherlock said.

"What d'you mean?" John asked.

"He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?"

He stormed off, John and I following behind.

Sherlock walked rapidly into the living room of his flat, pulling his scarf and coat off as he walked across to the laptop on the table.

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive." Sherlock surmised, going over the facts John had explained on the way over. He sat down at the table while John walked over to the window near him and looked out. "I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me ..."

"... the others kill them before they can get it." John finished.

Sherlock grunted in agreement and typed rapidly on the laptop, calling up a list of local Wi-Fi networks. I leaned over him, noticing there were five of them. He checked their signal strength and the names of the networks.

"All of the attention is focused on me. There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now."

"So what have you got that's so important?" John asked.

Sherlock gazed into the distance and thought for a moment, then ran his finger along the table beside the computer, lifting it and looking at his fingertip.

"We need to ask about the dusting."

Lestrade sighed, exchanging brief looks with John and me, and turned and headed off down the stairs. I walked over to Sherlock's chair, sitting down tiredly as John watches him go. Sherlock linked the camera into the computer, pulling up the footage on the computer screen. John walked over to the window and looked out. As the sound of car starting drifted up from the streets, Sherlock briefly looked at John.

"They'll be deciding." Sherlock stated.

"Deciding?" John asked.

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"Standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him. People'll think ..."

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."

Angrily, John turned towards him. "Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're ..."

He trailed off as Sherlock lifted his head to look at him.

"That I am what?" Sherlock asked.

"A fraud." John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back in the seat, "You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

John turned away and looked out of the window again, "No I'm not."

Sherlock leaned forward, "Moriarty is playing with your mind too." He slammed his hand furiously onto the table. "Can't you see what's going on?"

John looked at him for a few seconds, then returned his gaze out the window. "No, I know you're for real."

"A hundred percent?"

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time." John said quietly, turning back to Sherlock once more.

"What are we going to do now?" I asked quietly, getting up from my seat. "Because I, for one, don't want to sit idly by while you get dragged through the mud."

"Not much we can do now," Sherlock said.

"So, what, we're just going to sit here while you get arrested?"

"It's what Moriarty wants."

"Fuck what he wants!" I yelled. "How about what you want. Or what John wants. Or, here's a thought, what I want."

Sherlock looked at me, mildly surprised, "And what do you want?"

"For you to stop being treated like some kind of freak! For people to start believing that you know what the fuck you're talking about."

Sherlock said nothing, merely getting up and sitting in the chair I just vacated.

"You believe in me?" He asked quietly.

"More than reasonable," I replied, my tone quieting. "No matter how infuriating you are, I will always have faith in you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John's phone rang and interrupted him.

"Hello?" John answered, pausing to hear the caller. "Right, thanks." He lowered his phone switches it off, turning to Sherlock. "So, still got some friends on the Force. It's Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

"Shit," I muttered, running my hands over my face.

Sherlock took no notice of him. Mrs. Hudson knocked on the closed living room door with her customary "Ooh-ooh!" and walked in.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" She asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away. She turned her attention to John.

"Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked 'Perishable' – I had to sign for it."

John took the Jiffy bag from her, and I noticed immediately the wax seal over the flap. Sherlock looked across and also saw the seal.

"Funny name." Mrs. Hudson mused. "German, like the fairytales."

Sherlock rose to his feet and walked forward, his gaze intense and locked on the Jiffy bag as John opened it and pulled out the contents. Outside, the sirens of several different vehicles approached. In John's hand was a large gingerbread man, but the color was off.

"Burnt to a crisp." Sherlock said.

My breath caught in my throat as the sirens stopped, the vehicles pulling up outside and doors slamming as people got out of the cars. The inevitability of this situation was finally bearing down on me. Moriarty was winning and I had done nothing to stop him.

"What does it mean?" John asked, referring to the gingerbread man.

The doorbell rang, someone pounding on the front door knocker at the same time.

"Police!" A voice yelled.

"I'll go." Mrs. Hudson said, turning and hurrying down the stairs as the knocking continued.

"Sherlock ..." We heard Donovan's voice.

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson." Came Lestrade's voice.

"We need to talk to you!" Donovan called up the stairs.

John put the gingerbread man back into the envelope and set it on the table, heading out of the flat. My breathing got heavy as I tried to fight back the tears. I could've stopped this.

"Don't barge in like that!" Mrs. Hudson yelled.

I heard feet trotting up the stairs. Sherlock calmly turned around, picking up his scarf and looping it around his neck. I heard the footsteps stop, John having apparently blocked the stairs halfway up.

"Have you got a warrant? Have you?" I heard John asked.

"Leave it, John." Lestrade said.

"Really! Manners!" Mrs. Hudson scolded.

Sherlock put his coat on, noticing the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, my voice catching slightly. "I could've stopped this."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, confused, but was unable to answer as the officers walked into the flat. I walked over, standing beside an equally distressed Mrs. Hudson, clasping a hand to my mouth in an effort to stop crying. Lestrade stood in front of him and read him his rights while one of two armed officers attached handcuffs to Sherlock's left wrist.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

John gestured toward Sherlock while looking at Lestrade as the officer pulled Sherlock's left hand behind his back in order to cuff his other wrist.

"He's not resisting."

"It's all right, John." Sherlock told him.

"He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

"Get him downstairs now." Lestrade said to the officer handcuffing Sherlock.

The officer spun Sherlock around and marched him out of the door.

"You know you don't have to do ..." John started.

Lestrade pointed at John sternly, "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too."

He turned and lefts the room. John turned to Donovan.

"You done?"

"Oh, I said it." She replied smugly.

"Mmm-hmm?"

"First time we met."

"Don't bother."

"_Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line_. Now, ask yourself: what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

Mrs. Hudson gasped, and at that moment the Chief Superintendent walked in.

"Donovan." He acknowledged her.

"Sir."

"Got our man?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me."

John and I turned towards him. I made a move to leap at him and tear out his jugular, but John held a hand out, stopping me at the slight first move I had made.

"Often are, these vigilante types." The Superintendent continued. He looked around, noticing the angry glares both John and I were giving him. "What are you looking at?"

John stole my glory, punching the man square in the nose.

John was slammed up against the car next to Sherlock, who looked across to him with an amused expression on his face. I stood just outside the flat, trying to take control of my tears as I looked on. A couple of armed officers unlocked the cuff on Sherlock's right hand and transferred it to John's right wrist, chaining the boys together. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, giving a reassuring smile to me before turning his attention to the other officers. He looked down at the radio lying on the dashboard of the car they were leaning against. The radio squealed as the dispatcher spoke.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock reached through the open window of the car with his free hand and pressed down on the Talk button. Instantly the officer behind the boys doubled over in pain and grabbed at his earpiece as a high-pitched squeal of feedback ripped through it. Sherlock reached behind him and pulled the officer's pistol free, instantly raising it. John's shackled right hand was yanked upward as well, and he gasped in surprise at the rapid turn of events.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Sherlock called out as he aimed the pistol towards the nearest officers.

I slapped my hands to my face in despair. There was no rectifying this. When nobody reacted, Sherlock raised the gun skywards and fired it twice.

"NOW would be good!"

He lowered it and pointed it at the police again.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade ordered, gesturing everybody downwards, the police starting to kneel.

"Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a ... you know ..." John started loudly as they began to walk away.

Sherlock transferred the pistol to his right hand and promptly aimed it at John's head. "... my hostage."

They continued backing away from the kneeling police, carefully rounding the corner. They turned raced off down the road. Lestrade buried his head in his hands as the Chief Superintendent got to his feet and turned to him.

"Get after him, Lestrade!" He yelled.

Lestrade glared furiously at Donovan as she began to head in the direction the boys had gone, moving a lot slower than the rest of the officers.

"Oh my god," I groaned, walking back to my flat.

I opened my door and jumped slightly as I saw Jim sitting there, dressed shabbier than I had seen him before.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked, wiping away the remnants of my tears.

"I wanted to visit you." He told me.

"Are you serious?" I asked disbelievingly. "John and Sherlock just got arrested because of you! They just got fucking pulled out and had to run away to avoid being taken in!" I ran my hands through my hair, completely at the mercy of all the emotions I had been subjected to. "And no matter how many times I said I didn't want to be involved, I still got involved. I've always been involved because no matter what I do I can't get out of this!"

"Which is why you should have been with me!" He yelled.

He put his hands over his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He had never yelled at me before. The only time I heard him yell was at the pool, and that was directed at Sherlock. This was the first time he had actually yelled at me, and I was afraid.

"I warned you." He said finally, his tone weakened. "I told you he would lose and I tried to get you on my side so this wouldn't happen."

"Your side?" I laughed bitterly. "I could never have done what you did to those children."

"They were just children."

"Not to their parents!" I yelled fiercely. It was my turn to be loud now. "You don't know what it's like for a parent to lose their child! It rips you apart from the inside out, and god help me if those children had died your neck would have been snapped to moment I saw you in here."

Somewhere during my tirade I had started crying again.

"Why do you care about them?" He asked, his tone softening only slightly.

"Because I lost a child." I spat. "Only I didn't have the luxury of someone kidnapping them. My own body killed them. That's why I care."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't know," I laughed acidly. "You're so obsessed with Sherlock you've become blind to everything else! It's just fucking crazy!"

"I'm not just obsessed with just Sherlock." He told me tonelessly.

I laughed dryly again. This was ridiculous. "Oh my god, I can't do this."

"Why can't you see that I would have burned to world for you, Diana!"

His words stopped me. Not what he said, but how he said it.

"But it's too late."

"What are you speaking in past tense?" I asked him warily.

"The game has changed, Diana. It might've ended differently, but now we'll never know."

"What are you talking about, Jim?"

"I'm not going to be around much longer and I want to do this while I can."

And with that, he kissed me. I probably should've seen it coming. He held his hands gently on my cheeks, his fingers knotting slightly in my hair, as his lips moved against mine.

"Jim," I whispered in a weak protest.

"Please," he merely responded, resuming the kiss.

I should have stopped it. But I let him kiss me, even kissing back slightly regardless of the angry beast knotting inside my stomach, screaming at me that this was wrong. He pulled back, his hands still resting on my face, his eyes staring into mine.

"I never would've gotten you, would I?" He asked, almost broken.

I couldn't form words, shaking my head as my only response. He laughed humorously, placing one last kiss on my lips before removing his hands from my face.

"So this is how it ends," he said, making his way to the door. "Goodbye, my Diana."

He left, his words finally sinking in. My breathing started getting heavier, tears flooding down my cheeks. Something was terribly, terribly wrong and all this would end horribly. And it was my fault.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Sweet Jesus, guys, I'm so sorry this was put up so late. My internship and summer courses decided to gang up on me and beat me up. **

**Misplaced Levity: Thanks, that means a lot to me. I try really hard to match the awesomeness of the writers, and I'm so glad you liked it.  
**

**CrazyCousinEiko: I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there's not going to be a big huge confrontation between Donovan and Diana. There will be a meeting, but no big catfight or anything like that.  
**

* * *

I was lying on my bed, attempting to fall asleep. The rumbling in my head wouldn't allow me to keep my eyes closed for long. My text alert was a thankful reprieve from the millions of thoughts beating my brain into submission.

**Come to Bart's. – SH**

**WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? – DR**

**I'll explain when you're here. Please come. – SH**

**On my way. – DR**

I bolted out of my flat like a bat out of hell, jumped in a cab and directed him to speed as much as he was allowed to in order to get me to Bart's in the least amount of time. I knew exactly which lab Sherlock would be in. When I got there, he was sitting alone in a lab chair, his elbows on the desk and his hands folded in a prayer position in front of him. His eyes were far away and I could see his min working feverishly behind them.

"Sherlock?" I asked cautiously.

He snapped out of his thoughts and looked up at me, standing up slowly. "I'm sorry."

I rushed over and hugged him, "You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault."

"Why did you say it was yours?"

I paused, pulling away slightly. It was going to be difficult to tell Sherlock this.

"Moriarty's been trying to get me to turn on you, pass along information to him. I didn't. But I could've done something to stop all this."

Sherlock shook his head, pressing his lips to my hairline. "There was nothing you could do. Moriarty changed his identity, made it so he never existed."

"But we can change it back, right?"

"I hope so." Sherlock whispered, looking at me with a gaze that startled me.

It was the same look he always threw in my direction. A softness edged around his hard gaze, but this time it was colored with something else. It was fear, or apprehension, or maybe defeat. I couldn't exactly tell, but whatever it was, it scared me.

"Sher – " I began, being cut off by him pressing his lips to mine.

The kiss was scary too. All the emotions I had seen in his eyes were now coming out through his kiss. He had always kept himself so guarded even around me, though that had been declining as we spent more time alone. To have all of this coming onto me in one kiss, I began to wonder what was going on.

"You've always had faith in me?" He whispered, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Sherlock – "

"Always?" He pressed, an almost desperate edge to his voice.

"Always," I confirmed.

He kissed me again. "I want you to always remember that. Please."

"Sherlock, you're scaring me. What's going to happen?"

Sherlock paused, his lips tightening slightly. "I don't know."

It was about ten minutes later when we were joined by John. Sherlock had sat himself on the floor, his back against the bench. I was sitting by him, nestled in the cook of his arm while he bounced a small rubber ball off the floor and cupboard in front of us with his other.

"Got your message." John said as the door closed behind him.

Sherlock caught the ball one final time, holding on to it. "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."

"What d'you mean, 'use it?"

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again."

Sherlock stood up, I followed the action.

"Somewhere in 221B, somewhere – on the day of the verdict – he left it hidden." Sherlock said, turning and facing the bench, putting both hands on the work surface.

John walked to stand beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance. "Uh-huh."

The three of us were silent, thinking. John pursed his lips, then looking at Sherlock.

"What did he touch?"

"An apple. Nothing else." Sherlock replied, briefly drumming his fingers on the bench.

"Did he write anything down?"

"No."

John hissed in a breath and looked away, racking his brains and again unconsciously mimicking Sherlock by drumming his own fingers on the bench. After a moment, he turned and walked across the lab, blowing the breath out again. Sherlock lifted the fingers of his right hand, hesitating for a moment, then began to drum them again. I looked, confused and slightly intrigued as he started to beat out a specific rhythm. He lifted his head as John sighed heavily again, unaware of Sherlock's sharpened expression. Sherlock turned to me, smiling tightly as he noticed my expression as he turned away from both John and me, taking his phone out of his pocket and typing a message. He tucked his phone away seconds later, turning back towards the bench, his eyes becoming far away again.

Some hours later, dawn began to break. Sherlock was still in the same place, although he was now sitting down with his feet up on the bench. He was rapidly rolling the rubber ball from side to side across the bench, his fingers flickering rapidly over the top of the ball. John was sat on a stool at a nearby bench, his head down on his folded arms, asleep. I however, couldn't fall asleep. Something was still pulling at my brain.

"Why did you ask if I had had faith in you earlier?"

"Because I care about you, and I care about what you think."

"You do?"

He gave a slight smile, "Of course I do."

I leaned up and kissed his jaw line. "I care about you too."

His lips captured mine once more, a new emotion pouring through his lips, trying to express what he was afraid to say out loud. I replied, just as intensely. I kissed him like it was the last time I ever would, trying to make sure he knew just how I felt for him. We were interrupted by John's phone ringing. He groaned tiredly as he lifted his head to answer it.

"Yeah, speaking." He listened for a moment. "Er, what?" He asked, shocked, as he got to his feet." What happened? Is she okay?" He listened once more. "Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."

He switched the phone off.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson – she's been shot."

"What? How?"

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract" John replied frantically. "... Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

He turned towards the door, and I got up and followed, not noticing Sherlock wasn't behind me.

"You go. I'm busy." Sherlock told him, disinterestedly.

John turned back towards him, his face appalled. I just looked at him confused. Something was wrong. It had been wrong since this night started, and it was getting more so with each passing moment.

"Busy?" John demanded.

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to ...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Sherlock shrugged, "She's my landlady."

"She's dying ..." John replied furiously. He flung a hand in front of himself in utter disbelief at Sherlock's attitude. "You machine." He looked down, shaking his head. "Sod this. Sod this." He walked towards the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

John opened the door, looking back at him angrily, "No. Friends protect people."

He stormed out of the room. I looked at Sherlock, my hand poised on the door handle.

"You should go with him," Sherlock told me. When I didn't move, he looked up at me. "Please."

It wasn't the voice of someone who didn't care telling me to go, and I nodded as soon as I heard his tone. I ran after John, catching up to him as he reached the elevator.

"I don't know why you put up with him," he hissed at me.

"You're an idiot." I retorted.

"What?"

"He's scared."

"We've seen Sherlock scared."

"Yeah, of a demon dog, not of his entire world crumbling around him." I told him as the doors closed and the elevator started moving. "He's just trying to protect us."

"Protect us? Mrs. Hudson got shot and he didn't even blink an eye!" John voice raised angrily.

"How do you know she got shot?" I countered, my tone matching his.

"The paramedics called me!"

"Yeah, because no one can fake a phone call!"

"You're just trying to defend him because you're his girlfriend."

"You're his friend! You should be doing the same damn thing!"

/

Jim Moriarty sat on the roof of St. Barts, the morning sun beaming down on him. He calmly sat on the raised ledge at the edge of the building with his phone in his hand as The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive" played from it. He didn't even bother looking at Sherlock when he opened the roof access door.

"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." Jim held his phone up higher. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?"

Angrily, he switched the phone off.

"It's just ..." He held his hand out flat, his palm down, and skimmed it slowly through the air level to the roof "... staying."

He pulled his hand back and briefly sank his head into it as Sherlock paced around the roof.

"All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

Sherlock's head turned sharply towards him as he continued to pace.

"And you know what? In the end it was easy." Jim continued. "Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them."

He lowered his head again and rubbed his face before looking up at Sherlock.

"Ah well." He stood and walked closer, slowly beginning to pace around Sherlock, "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook." Sherlock stated tonelessly.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun." Jim said, inflecting a fake American accent.

As Jim continued to pace around Sherlock, he looked down to Sherlock's hands and saw that he was beating out a rhythm with his fingers.

"Good. You got that too."

"Beats like digits." Sherlock replied. "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

Sherlock gestured to his own head, "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

Jim gazed at him for a moment, then turned away with a disappointed look on his face.

"No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." He buried his head in his hands. "This is too easy."

Lowering his hands, he turned back to Sherlock. "There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed." Jim turned away and lumbered across the roof, making his voice sound moronic as he continued speaking. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

"But the rhythm ..." Sherlock began.

"_Partita number one_. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"But then how did ..."

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" Jim turned and spread his arms wide. "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants." "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

"Do it? Do – do what?" Sherlock asked, bewildered. He blinked as it became clearer to him and he turned towards Jim. "Yes, of course. My suicide."

"_Genius detective proved to be a fraud_." Jim recited. "I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward, looking over the side to the ground below. Jim walked to stand beside him and looked over the side as well.

"And pretty Grimm ones too."

Jim turned his head and looked ominously at Sherlock.

/

Our taxi pulled up outside the flat, and John and I jumped out. He led the way as we and hurried towards the door, as he scrambled for his keys. As we hurried inside, I saw a man standing on top of a stepladder just in front of the stairs drilling a hole into the wall. Mrs. Hudson was standing nearby watching him. As we ran towards her, she jolted, having been startled and by not hearing our approach over the sound of the drill.

"Oh, God, John! Diana, dear! You made me jump!" She laughed lightly.

"But ..." John started at her in confusion.

I rolled my eyes. I knew I was right.

"Is everything okay now with the police? Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?" She asked.

John stared at her for a moment, looking to me as it sunk in. "Oh my God."

He turned around and ran out as I followed hot on his heels. We looked up and down the street frantically.

"Taxi!" John called, though it pulled over on the other side of the road. We chased after it. "Taxi!"

A man was standing at the side of the road, having also just hailed the cab. As he leaned into the front window to tell the driver his destination, we ran around the cab and John pulled open the rear door, talking even as we scrambled inside.

"No, no, no, no, police! ... Sort of."

"Oh, thanks, mate – thanks a lot," the man said, bot sarcastic and angry, as he walked away.

"Bart's Hospital," John ordered.

The man took off, sensing the urgency in John's voice.

"Why didn't you tell me it was Moriarty?"

"You wouldn't have believed me if I did! Or you would've come down here anyways thinking she did get shot, even though I said she wouldn't!"

"But you let us leave! Do you know what Moriarty could be planning?"

"Sherlock's death. And he knew too. That's why he wanted us out of there just as much. I _told_ you he was trying to protect us!"

/

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity." Sherlock told Jim.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." Jim replied, exasperated.

Sherlock turned away, beginning to pace distractedly.

"Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?"

In a swift move, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his coat with both hands and spun him around so that Jim's back was to the drop. He stared into his face and shoved him back one step nearer the edge. Jim looked at him with interest as Sherlock's breathing became shorter.

"You're insane." Sherlock growled.

Jim blinked. "You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock shoved him further back, now holding him over the edge. Jim whooped almost triumphantly and gazed back at Sherlock with no fear in his eyes, holding his hands out wide and committing himself to Sherlock's grasp.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowned, not understanding what Jim meant by 'incentive'.

"Your friends will die if you don't." Jim's tone was menacing.

Fear began to creep into Sherlock's eyes.

"John."

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims." Jim giggled evilly.

"And the best part is, you lose either way. Your friends will live if you die, but if you sacrifice your friends to live I've made sure Diana will know all about it. How it's your fault they're dead. She'd never want you then."

Sherlock shook Jim angrily, "I know you've been stalking her." He growled, "You think she'd actually join you? And I thought you were smart. Even if I die, she'd never want you."

"Doesn't matter now. The gunmen are in place," Jim said as Sherlock furiously pulled him back upwards to safety. Jim stared into his face. "There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock gazed past him, breathing heavily and as Jim's threat sunk in. Jim shook himself free of his grasp and smiled triumphantly.

"You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

"... unless I kill myself – complete your story."

Jim nodded and smiled ecstatically. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

"And I die in disgrace."

"Of course. That's the point of this." Jim looked over the side and saw that someone had stopped at the benches near the bus stop below them. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on."

Sherlock slowly stepped past him and up onto the ledge.

"I told you how this ends."

Sherlock's breathing became shakier as he looked down.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

Sherlock blinked anxiously. "Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" He glanced down at Jim. "Please?"

Jim frowned slight, disappointed that Sherlock could be so ordinary. "Of course."

He moved away across the roof. Sherlock took several shallow anxious breaths, then stopped breathing for a moment as his brain kicked into gear again. He lifted his gaze as his eyes became thoughtful. Slowly a smile spread across his face and he started to chuckle. Behind him, Jim was slowly walking across the roof but he stopped, his expression livid, as Sherlock laughed with delight. Jim whipped around furiously.

"What?" He asked, both confused and angry.

Sherlock continued to laugh.

"What is it?" Jim pressed as Sherlock began to turn towards him, smiling towards him as he glared back. "What did I miss?"

Sherlock hopped down off the ledge and walked closer to him.

"You're not going to do it." Sherlock echoed Jim's words. "So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number." Sherlock began to circle around Jim, "I don't have to die ... if I've got you."

"Oh!" Jim laughed in relieved delight. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Sherlock stopped, getting into Jim's face, "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Jim shook his head slowly. "Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock's voice became more ominous, "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

The enemies locked eyes for a long moment as Jim tried to deduce how far Sherlock would go.

"No, you're not."

He blinked, then closed his eyes briefly. Sherlock did the same in an unintentional mirror movement. Jim smiled and opened his eyes again.

"I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." Jim hissed out a delighted laugh and his voice became more high-pitched. "You're me! Thank you!" He lifted his hand as if to embrace Sherlock, but lowered it and offered it to him to shake instead. "Sherlock Holmes."

They both looked down at the offered hand, then Sherlock slowly raised his own and took it.

Jim nodded almost frenetically, though his voice remained soft, "Thank you. Bless you." He blinked and lowered his gaze, "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that."

In rapid succession he raised his eyes to Sherlock's, grinned manically, opened his mouth wide and pulled Sherlock closer as he reached into his waistband with his other hand and pulled a pistol out and raised it towards his own mouth. Sherlock instinctively pulled back, crying out in alarm, as Jim stuck the muzzle into his own mouth and pulled the trigger, dropping to the ground instantly. Sherlock stared in horror as blood began to trickle across the roof underneath Jim's head. Jim's eyes were fixed and open, a smile of victory on his face. Sherlock spun away from him, his breathing noisy and frantic as he raised his hands to his head in horror. He thought frantically for a while, then slowly turned towards the edge of the building. His breathing began to slow as he stepped up onto the ledge, blowing out another breath and looking down towards the ground.

/

John's phone began to ring as we got out of the raised his phone to his ear as we jogged towards the hospital.

"Hello?" He answered, pausing to listen. "Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" Another pause. "No, we're coming in."

John held an arm out to stop me before putting the arm around me and guiding me back.

"Where?" John asked. He paused to listen, pulling my coat to stop me. "Sherlock?"

John turned and looked up. I followed the action and my heart fell to my stomach as I saw Sherlock perched on the edge of the roof.

"Oh God." John whispered.

Sherlock said something to him, and John lowered the phone, putting it on speaker.

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock told us.

"What's going on?" John asked anxiously.

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Sherlock, stop it," I half-ordered. The words barely came out; there was a lump in my throat.

"Why are you saying this?" John asked him.

"I'm a fake." Sherlock said, his voice breaking.

"Sherlock ..."

"The newspapers were right all along." Sherlock's voice became tearful. "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock laughed quietly, "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." Sherlock sniffed. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head repeatedly. "No. All right, stop it now."

He started to walk towards the hospital entrance. I couldn't move. I was frozen to the spot, tears starting to leak out of my eyes.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." I heard Sherlock order desperately.

John stopped and backed up, holding his hand up towards Sherlock in capitulation. "All right."

Breathing rapidly, Sherlock reached out his own hand towards us. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice was frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John asked.

"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

John shook his head the stress of what he's beginning to understand hitting him.

"Sherlock, please, just come down," I was crying. Ugly crying. Desperate crying. "Please, Sherlock."

"Leave a note when?" John asked when Sherlock didn't reply.

"Goodbye, Diana." Sherlock said.

"Please, no," I begged.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't." John shook his head.

Sherlock gazed down at us for several seconds, then lowered his arm and dropped his phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself. John lowered his own phone.

"No. SHERLOCK!" He screamed upwards.

Sherlock spread his arms and fell forward, plummeting towards the ground. I stared in utter horror.

"Sher..."

"No," I cried, shaking my head even though I knew the outcome.

A couple of seconds later the body impacted the ground. It was like my hearing had gone out, my entire focus was getting to Sherlock as soon as I could. With John mere inches behind me, we ran to the corner of the building we had been ordered by Sherlock to stand at. We slowed to a stop, the first glimpse of Sherlock's body crumpled on the pavement, the lower part of his body obscured by a parked lorry. Suddenly I was thrown to the ground, my head hitting the asphalt hard as John collapsed on top of me. I looked up, my blurred vision causing me to just miss the bicyclist who hit us. John groaned, his head injured as well. People were starting to run towards the body on the pavement. The lorry pulled away and a couple of medics from the hospital hurried out and started trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close. Grimacing with pain, John roll onto his side and looked across to the pavement where Sherlock was lying on his side. I was on my knees, my head pounding as I tried to stay conscious, knowing the most important thing was getting to Sherlock. There was a lot of blood under his head. I had to get there. Slowly John hauled himself to his feet, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards Sherlock as more onlookers gathered, talking excitedly about what they saw.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." John said, trying to push through the crowds. Some of the crowd tried to hold him back but he pushed through them. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

I sunk to my knees, the tears freely coming as I looked at Sherlock, blood covering the ground around him. John reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse. A woman peeled his fingers off as she and another person pulled him away. As he reaches towards his friend again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.

"Please, let me just ..." John tried frantically.

His knees gave out, the combination of the shock and the bang on his head affecting him. As he slumped to the ground beside me, supported by a couple of onlookers, two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back revealing his blood stained face and wide staring eyes. John groaned in utter despair.

"No, please, no," I cried out, my body now racked with sobs.

John tried to stand but sunk back down again, "God, no."

As the onlookers supported him, four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital. John stared after it, his face blank and uncomprehending as I covered my mouth, trying to stop the loud sobs from coming out. John finally managed to get to his feet and shook off his helpers, staring blindly in the direction that Sherlock's body was taken.

/

Mycroft looked at the CCTV footage streaming to the laptop screen live from the streets of Barts. He saw the crumpled, subbing figure of Diana and the shocked John. It hadn't yet sunk in for him that Sherlock was dead. Mycroft sighed.

The absolute pain these two were feeling was bringing a great weight of guilt onto him. He was a man who could fix all of England with just the press of a button, but he couldn't fix this. Sherlock needed to stay dead for a while.

It was the only way John and Diana would be safe.

And Sherlock would kill him if anything happened to them.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: I am so sorry this is late! My fiance decided to be master computer technician this weekend and rebuild his computer's tower-thing. However...he didn't know what he was doing and since the internet in our house doesn't work unless it's hooked up to his computer I was completely cut off from the world!**

**88dragon06: Yeah, the internship is going really well! It's just a lot of work combined with the classes I'm taking this summer. But thanks for asking!**

* * *

It was quiet in the flat after it happened. John had tried to stay in the flat. He lasted three days before it became too much for him He was staying with a friend, Mike or Bill; I didn't know who it was. It was hard for him to be in the apartment.

I didn't sleep in my own apartment anymore. I slept in Sherlock's bed. Used his shower supplies. Anything to keep the tiniest bits of him alive for me.

There was a part of me that didn't believe it. That refused to believe that Sherlock was dead.

But I had seen the body. I saw the blood and I saw his eyes, and I knew.

I spent most of my days sitting in John's chair, looking at Sherlock's. Imagining him crouching on it and adopting his thinking position. His robe was still draped on the side of it. He never could tidy up after himself when it came to meaningless things. Everything had its place in the apartment except for clothes. I just sat there, thinking. About nothing and everything.

"I'm going to talk to you, and then you're going to kill yourself." I muttered to myself one rainy day.

"What was that, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

I turned around, noticing her startled face. I had said something very strange. I looked down, noticing the brown cardboard box in her hands. She had come to pack up the science equipment.

"It's something that Sherlock told me. It was what the cab driver said to him during the Study in Pink case. It's some sick kind of foreshadowing."

"You think that's what that man did? Moriarty? He talked to him?"

"Yeah. And then Sherlock jumped." I finished, a sob catching in my throat.

John joined us as we rode to the graveyard in a taxi. Mrs. Hudson was bringing flowers, happy yellow blooms that seemed too bright compared to the situation. There hadn't been a ceremony. Sherlock had been quietly buried with only his brother to see him off. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted a big show of his burial, but he probably would've liked his only friends to be there too. She rested the flowers at the base of the headstone when we reached it.

"There's all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She said, looking at John. "Would you ...?"

"I can't go back to the flat again – not at the moment."

She took his arm sympathetically.

"I'll do it," I told her. "Most of it's not his anyways. It's stuff he borrowed from Bart's or Scotland Yard."

"Do you know which?" She asked me.

"Yeah."

There was a short pause before any of us spoke again.

"I'm angry."

He took a deep breath through his nose, trying not to break down. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm gently.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel." She looked down at the smooth black marble which simply bore the words SHERLOCK HOLMES. "All the marks on my table; and the noise – firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah."

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes as she continued, her own voice breaking.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

John turned to her. "Yeah, listen: I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." She turned away, pulling her arm free of his. "I'll leave you alone to, erm ..." Her voice broke again, "... you know."

Crying, she walked away, fishing out a tissue to blow her nose. John add I looked down at the grave as he drew in a deep breath.

"Do you want some privacy?" I asked.

"Yeah, if you don't mind," he said weekly.

I nodded, moving off to a statue of an angel nearby. John looked back over his shoulder to see that Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot as well, then turned back to the grave again. I could just barely make out what he was saying from where I stood.

"Um ... mmm." He pulled himself together a little. "You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There."

He blew out a breath, whimpering slightly. Looking over his shoulder again, he walked over to the headstone and put his fingertips onto the top of it. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took a tearful breath. "Okay."

He turned and started to walk away but only reached the foot of the grave before he turned back again.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be ..." His voice broke and filled with tears, ".. dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it." He gestured down at the grave. "Stop this."

He sighed and lowered his head and stood there, broken. He lowered his head further, covering his eyes with one hand and wept. Finally he wiped his eyes, sniffed deeply and raised his head, coming to attention in front of his best friend. Nodding in salute to him and giving himself permission to dismiss, he turned smartly on one heel and then walked towards me.

"Do you want us to wait for you?" He asked, his voice still slightly broken.

I shook my head, "I can take a cab back."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He nodded solemnly before pulling me into a hug. It was brief, and he was off walking towards the cab as soon as he pulled out of it.

I looked at the gravestone, not knowing what to say. I tried to stop the emotion from bubbling up, but I lost the battle and sunk down to my knees, sobbing.

/

Standing some distance away under a tree and obscured from view by other headstones, Sherlock Holmes watched his best friend walk across the graveyard until he disappeared from view. He turned back to the headstone over an empty grave, seeing his girlfriend doubled over in sadness. He crept closer, still keeping out of sight, just close enough to hear what she was saying.

"I hate you," she wept. "I hate you for doing this, I hate you for leaving me and most of all," he voice broke, "I hate that I can't hate you."

She lowered her head into her hands and began to weep, her shoulders convulsing with sobs.

"And what makes this worse," she managed through tears, "is that we don't know why. I don't care what Moriarty did, we could've fixed it, but you went and did this and we'll never know why."

She lifted her head, righting herself back in a kneeling position.

"There was so much I wanted to tell you. So many things, and if I how little time we had left I would've told you."

She ran a hand through her hair, sobs becoming caught in her throat again.

"And you knew! You knew all along that he'd try something like this, didn't you! You knew all along and you didn't do anything to stop him! You just let him win and now you're gone. What are we supposed to do now?"

She turned her head to the sky, blinking back tears.

"You've left such a hole in Baker Street. There's no one in the world like you and there's no one who could make me feel so…to make me…"

She covered her face with her hands and lowered her head, trying to stop the tears from coming back. She breathed in a shuddering breath, steadying herself and standing up. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared down at the gravestone.

"I love you, Sherlock." She said, sniffing. "I wish I had told you sooner. Maybe things would've turned out differently."

Sherlock watched as she walked away, heat rising up his neck to his ears. He was beginning to hate himself, too. She had fallen in love with him, and he had made her believe he killed himself.

Maybe John was right, maybe he was a machine.

No. No, a machine could never feel what he felt for Diana.

But was it love?

He looked at her retreating figure, her phone to her ear as she called for a cab. He wanted to run after her, to tell her it was all a lie and he had 'killed' himself to save them. But, she was still in danger. They all were. If he were to come back too soon, it could jeopardize their safety. He still had Moriarty's criminal organization to dismantle. While it was still functioning, everyone he cared about was still in danger.

He was thankful for the two people who knew he was alive. Their assistance would prove helpful in removing Moriarty's men from the world in a short enough time to get back to Diana.

He just hoped she would be willing to take him back after what he put her through.

/

"You alright, miss?" The cab driver asked as he drove me back to Baker Street.

I laughed lightly, a small amount of humor in the noise, "I just came from a graveyard, and you're asking me if I'm alright?"

He smiled, "What I meant to say was, 'you'll be alright', miss."

"Thanks," I told him, smiling as well even though it didn't reach my ears.

"I heard that Sherlock bloke is buried there. Shame what happened to him."

"Oh?" I asked, my ears perking up slightly at Sherlock's name.

"Newspapers say he's a fraud, that he made up all his cases. A load of hogwash if you ask me."

"You don't believe the papers?"

"Not a word. My nephew Chris once got helped by him. He thought he was seeing superheroes everywhere, and that Sherlock fellow sorted it out for him. How could Sherlock have made that up? I'll tell you: he couldn't."

"You think he was really a genius."

"I do, indeed. And I'll tell anyone who thinks otherwise just how wrong they are. It's a shame the papers won't let it go, though."

"What do you mean? They already wrote the story."

"Yes, but they're making him out to be a traitor to the crown."

"What?"

"Yeah, he used up resources for his own gain, and they're saying now he had connections to terrorist groups and was leaking information to them to make his crimes more and more extravagant!"

"That's such horseshit!" I exclaimed. "I am so sorry, that was rude of me."

"No, no ma'am. I feel the same way. But, that's the newspapers for you. They can get away with anything I they say they've got an anonymous source."

I sunk back in my seat, "Oh lord, that's not good. Not good at all."

"I'll say. First they shame a man with lies enough to make him take his own life, and then they disgrace to poor man even in death. I tell you, the world is turning into something awful."

I returned to Baker Street at a new low. Things were going downhill faster than I anticipated, and I had thought I had already hit the bottom. It was ridiculous. It was thoroughly upsetting.

There had to be something I could do to stop it.

I had no power, no connections, but I may have Mycroft.

He'd never let his brother's name be dragged through the mud like that.

I walked up to Sherlock's flat. As usual, John wasn't there. I looked around the flat; the science things were partially packed into boxes. Mrs. Hudson had probably given up trying to figure out what to do with them. I sighed and got to work. I packed up the stuff in two boxes; one for Bart's and one for Scotland Yard. It would be a hassle to take them all at once, so I figured I'd do Scotland Yard first.

And I had a very important meeting to make after I dropped it off.

With the cardboard box in hand, I made my way downstairs and hopped in a cab. I was rather dreading going. I wouldn't mind seeing Lestrade, but I didn't want to bump into Donovan or Anderson. It was their fault that Sherlock was questioned in the first place. I didn't know what would happen if I saw either of them.

But I was about to find out. I literally bumped into Donovan on my way to Lestrade's office. She turned around to tell of the person who bumped her, but when she noticed me, the words were lost.

"Oh um," Donovan started, her face mixing apprehension and confusion together.

It was no wonder, since she probably assumed I would hit her, and the moment I saw her I could feel the tears beginning to well up behind my eyes. I guess that was what would happen.

"Sally, hi." I said, my voice cracking slightly.

She looked taken aback. I hadn't ever addressed her by her first name.

"I just wanted to say that I forgive you," I told her, my voice shaking as I tried to hold back the emotional breakdown I could feel building up inside me. The words were coming out before I could stop them. "You were just doing what you thought was right, and I can't fault you for that. But I just want you to know that the man you accused of being a psychopath and a freak and whatever disparaging name you threw at him was the most beautiful man I have ever known." I quickly swiped away a tear rolling down my face. "Yes, he could be cold and confusing and his mind worked in ways I don't even want to begin to know, but he was good and kind even if he didn't know how to show it. I loved, no, I still am in love with him. So regardless of what you thought about him, just hear me when I say that you never knew Sherlock. Because if you did you wouldn't have seen things the way you did."

"I'm sorry," she told me sincerely.

"I forgive you," I replied. "You were just doing your job. If I was in your position and though what you did, I probably would've made the same call. Just, try to be a little more open minded next time."

With that, I walked off to Lestrade's office, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

I plunked the box on his desk when I got in there. He looked up from the files in his hands up at me in surprise.

"Diana, what are you doing here?"

"Sherlock, uhm…borrowed this stuff from here. I'm just returning it."

"Thanks," he replied. "Are you okay?"

"No. None of it makes sense, and I can't get over it. And now I've found out the media is planning on making him out to be a traitor."

"Yeah, I heard about that. I'm doing what I can to minimize the press but there's no guarantee. I can only do so much."

"Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, Diana. How's John?"

"Just as bad. He's not even staying at the flat."

Lestrade nodded grimly. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. Had I known what would've happened – "

"We all would have done things differently had we known. I don't blame you, and neither does John. None of this was your fault."

"Take care of yourself, Diana."

"You too."

I walked out of Lestrade's office, and into the next cab. I steadied my nerves, amping myself up for the confrontation I was about to have. I just hoped I would be convincing enough.


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY! I am never letting my fiance deal with the internet again, for every time he does it just quits working. *flail***

* * *

"I'm angry. I'm angry. I'm angry." I repeated lowly under my breath in the cab.

"What're you angry about love?" The cab driver asked, his voice thick with an accent.

"I should be angry about a lot of things. But right now, I'm just angry about one. I have to keep staying angry or else I'll start crying. I've got a lot of things to say and I need a clear head to say them."

/

Mycroft sat in his office, reading his newspaper and putting off some paperwork he could finish in three minutes flat. His office was actually his private room in the Diogenes Club. It was far quieter than any other office he'd had.

However, something was different. There was a commotion coming from outside his doors. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he folded his newspaper and sat it down on his desk. It was probably John again, and Mycroft didn't want to have to deal with another scolding from him.

However, when Mycroft arrived at the entryway, he wasn't greeted with the face of John. Instead, he was staring at Diana, her eyes slightly bloodshot from crying and her normally red hair faded. It was starting to take on a pinkish hue and her roots were showing; she hadn't bothered to re-dye it after Sherlock's death. Mycroft looked around to the staff that was supposed to escort her to his office. One was doubled over in pain and the other one had a white gloved hand clamped over their nose, the fabric becoming stained with blood.

"Diana," Mycroft started.

"Don't you dare," she spat back. "These guys were trying to get me to leave, saying that women weren't allowed in the Diogenes Club. That's not okay with me, Mycroft Holmes."

"How did you even find this place?"

"John told me."

"Ah, yes, of course."

Mycroft already knew the answer, though. It was the only possible answer to how she knew the club's location. What he didn't know was why she was there.

"I'm assuming you want to speak with me," Mycroft said.

"I do, but this is a conversation better had in privacy."

"Well then, follow me."

Mycroft led her to his office, sitting her in a darkly colored armchair and sat in a similar one across from her. He folded his hands in from of his face, adopting a position similar to Sherlock's thinking position. He looked at Diana expectantly.

"We have a problem," she told him, her face partially blank. The only emotion she was letting slip through gathered around her lips, which were pursed slightly. He studied her as she pulled a newspaper out of her purse. She had lost some weight, and she looked tired. She hadn't bothered putting on her usual amount of makeup, the 'barely-there' look that made her look healthy. She looked worn out, but the way she was holding herself in Mycroft's presence let him know he shouldn't underestimate her even now.

When Diana had found what she was looking for, she handed it to Mycroft. It was a newspaper bearing he headline: _Behind the Lies: What Made Sherlock So Desperate for Attention?_ Mycroft's lips pursed slightly as well as he read the headline.

"It's been almost three months since Sherlock died and they're still doing this. And I assume you know what they're planning next."

"I do, but I'm sure you're going to tell me anyways."

"They're going to make him out to be a traitor to the crown!"

"Diana, what do you want me to do about it?"

Diana looked at him, taken aback at his question.

"Excuse me? He's your brother. No one should have to tell you to do something about it."

Mycroft sighed, setting the paper aside and resuming his position.

"Do _you_ know what made Sherlock the way he was?" Mycroft asked her.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer it."

Diana's jaw clenched momentarily, "No."

"My dear brother had an inferiority complex that developed when he was young. Mother and father had become so used to my abilities that naturally they expected him to do just as well, resulting in him not getting praise or recognition. Sherlock's habit of showing off stemmed from a desire to measure up to our parent's expectation of him through what they saw in me. In his teens, he rebelled. He became a delinquent, but never got caught. You can see how he became exceptional at picking locks and breaking in."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because when he found you and John he was met with the first sincere praise he ever had in his life."

"Is that a thank you?"

"In a way, yes."

"I feel a 'but' coming along." I snapped lightly.

"No 'but'," Mycroft replied. "I just want to finish my story."

Diana sighed, "Fine."

"When our father died, Sherlock was just entering his teenage years. Our father was always a busy man, so he never had much time for us, and less so for Sherlock because he wasn't of an age where he could help our father with work."

"Charming," Diana muttered, but silenced when Mycroft shot her a withering glare.

"After he died," Mycroft continued, "our mother buried herself in his work, trying to maintain the legacy. That is why I was in a sense forced to take care of Sherlock, and he in turn was forced to grow up fast. When you were growing up, did you rebel against your parents because they told you what to do?"

"Of course, everyone does."

"Indeed, but Sherlock only had me to rebel against. He wanted attention from mother that he never got, and he wanted to 'get back' at me for telling him what to do. He never really grew out of rebelling against the latter."

"Uh huh," Diana said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you also the reason he was so cold before John and I came into his life?"

Mycroft pursed his lips again, not totally wanting to answer.

"I'll take your silence as a 'yes'. You're the reason Sherlock distanced himself from emotions and made him pretty much clueless about them. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you pretty attached to your father."

She paused, giving him room to answer, though he remained silent. However, he nodded ever so slightly an affirmation.

"So because you were also older than Sherlock at the time of his death as well as being closer to him, you decided it was better not to care at all rather than risking getting your heart broken like that. So in order to protect Sherlock from ever experiencing the pain of loss, you taught him to distance himself from feelings, to push them away. And you succeeded."

"I thought I was doing the right thing." Mycroft answered.

"I'm sure you did. But you ended up doing me harm than good." She laughed bitterly before continuing, "You know, I think I could venture as far as to say it's your fault people called him a freak."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but Diana held up a silencing hand.

"Save it, Mycroft. I'm sure your argument would have been thoroughly interesting, but I don't want to hear it. You asked me what I wanted you to do about that," she gestured to the newspaper, "and I think you know perfectly what I want you to do about it."

"There's nothing I _can_ do."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"I said bullshit. You practically run the British government and you're going to feed me some shit about how you can't do anything about _newspapers_?" Diana's voice was rising in anger, "I don't really know what I expected, but I can tell you one thing. You can try whatever bullshit you want, but I don't believe you for a second. It's like you almost wish to not care, but you do and it really won't fucking stop any time soon. You've already admitted, in so many ways, that you care about Sherlock. You watched him grow up. You probably cleaned up a scrape or two because Sherlock didn't always have that grace. You were the role model. And you watched out for him. And now that he's dead and people are still slandering him, you should STILL be watching out for him! He's your fucking brother! Do something!"

Mycroft was caught off guard. Diana had risen to her feet and her voice had risen to a loud shout. When John had been angry with him, it had been a quiet, controlled anger. Mycroft couldn't help but be partially intimidated by the man, because one wrong move and you'd be in the line of fire. With Diana, however, it was a far more dangerous kind of anger. Mycroft had never witnessed Diana's anger, nor did he think John and Sherlock had either. For that, he was grateful, because the woman in front of him was truly terrifying. Even with her worn appearance and tired eyes, behind them there was fire, and the only image Mycroft could think to associate her with would be a snarling, caged animal. It had been pacing back and forth inside of her throughout the conversation, and Mycroft had inadvertently opened the cage door.

Diana growled in anger, Mycroft had taken too long to answer her.

"When you finally decide to be a human and a _real_ brother to Sherlock, you know where to find me."

Diana made her way to the door, and Mycroft found his tongue just as she reached for the handle.

"And what are you going to do in the meantime?"

She paused, her hand hovering over the brass knob, and she turned slightly, her profile becoming visible to Mycroft.

"I'm going to do what you should be doing. Except I won't have the luxury of the British government to help me."

With that, she swiftly opened the door and slammed it behind her, leaving Mycroft in a stunned silence.

It wasn't that Mycroft couldn't feel. He could. He was, after all, still human.

It was more that he chose to ignore the impulses shot from his brain that told him to laugh, told him to cry, told him to be angry or sad or afraid. They had all, carefully, one by one, been shut down.

How ironic, then, that the only person who could still get a show of anything was the only other person who understood what it was like.

Sherlock.

His baby brother.

Mycroft never told Sherlock that he loved him. He hadn't for years, not since he was eleven and Sherlock was six, and Mycroft had mercilessly beaten another boy for teasing Sherlock. They had embraced, and that was the last time he remembered expressing love for his brother.

It had taken many years for Mycroft to the conclusion that, no matter how odd and awkward it would've been, he should've told Sherlock he cared for him more. It may have lessened the anger Sherlock had for him after Mycroft took over the role of parent for Sherlock

He should've been there for Sherlock when he broke his nose learning to ride a bicycle, instead of standing over him and teasing him. He should've been there when he fell so hard and so fast and was arrested four hours away in a drug induced stupor. He should've hugged Sherlock more. He should've visited more often. He should've –

He had asked, once, if there was something wrong with them. If they were defective for the way they saw the world. He had been upset, shaken, more lost and alone than Mycroft had seen him in a long time. And he had just let him walk out.

Mycroft told himself that Sherlock was going home to John and Diana, two people who were completely open and caring towards Sherlock, and that he would be taken care of. But Mycroft could have done something.

When Sherlock had come to him asking for his help in faking his death, they both made it plainly clear that they were doing it to protect the others. For John, Diana, Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade. But even though he had wanted to say it, Mycroft didn't tell Sherlock that he was also helping Sherlock _for_ Sherlock.

_There's still time_, Mycroft told himself. _Your brother's still alive. There's time still to end the childhood feud._

But, like always, there were more excuses stopping him from doing so.

/

Two weeks after Diana's visit, Lestrade's office was inundated with reports of vandalism. It wasn't his division, but the subject matter caused the cases to be handed over to him. All over London, spray-painted, stickered, postered and even leaflets tossed on the streets were the words

**I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**RICHARD BROOK WAS A FAKE**

**MORIARTY WAS REAL**

Lestrade sighed. He had a hunch on who was doing this, but he hoped he was wrong.

/

I was coming home from the salon, having decided that my faded red locks weren't cutting it anymore. I had my hair dyed dark brown, and my inner voice scolded me for getting a shade exactly like Sherlock's color. But I didn't care. It was one more thing I had left of him to cling to.

I had an unusual bounce in my step, and I was scolded again by my inner voice for being so cheerful. However, recent events had given me something to look forward to. And anyways, it was better than sitting around the house moping all day.

My phone rang in my pocket, and I was surprised to see Lestrade calling.

"Hello?" I asked as I answered.

"Diana, tell me you're not behind it."

"Uh, I think that'd be easier if I knew what you were talking about."

"Vandalism all over the city. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.' 'Richard Brook was a fake.' 'Moriarty was real.' I've already called John and he has no clue about it. Just tell me you're not involved."

"No, I'm not involved."

I was lying.

I was involved.

In fact, I was the orchestrator of the whole thing. I had pawned off the necklace Jim had bought me and reveled in the fact that the money was being used for a Moriarty smear campaign. What little pity or kind feelings for him I had ever felt before vanished as soon as Sherlock hit the pavement.

I had gotten Sherlock's homeless network to do the legwork, and it happened almost overnight.

Even without the British government on my side, I still did a pretty damn good job of fighting for Sherlock's good name.

"You're sure," Lestrade pressed.

"It's like you don't know me at all, Greg. Why would I lie to you about something like this?"

"I have a few guesses."

"Well guess all you want, but I didn't vandalize anything."

A half-truth. I didn't vandalize anything personally.

"Alright," Lestrade sighed, knowing there wasn't anything he could do without proof.

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, later."

I hung up and continued my journey back to Baker Street. When I opened the door, I had every intention of going up to Sherlock's flat as I usually did, but I was stopped halfway up the stairs when I noticed the living room door was open. My eyebrows furrowed, but I continued up the stairs when I heard Mrs. Hudson speaking to someone. I had no clue who she was speaking to, but it couldn't be too bad, judging by the cheery tone to her voice.

"Mrs. Hudson, who – " I started as I walked into the living room, my sentence falling short as I saw the woman sitting in Sherlock's chair.

I knew her immediately. The cheekbones, the posture, the steely gaze of her eyes.

This was the woman who had birthed both Mycroft and Sherlock, two of the most brilliant men in the world. And here she was, in 221B Baker Street, looking at me with those very same eyes that she gave her sons. And if I had felt small under Sherlock's gaze, I was microscopic under hers.


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: Sorry it took so long for this chapter to come up. It was being an awful bitch and I had to rewrite it at least eight times before I was happy with it. Mrs. Holmes is a hard woman to write! **

**Also, I've been super stressed out and I've kind of wanted to pull my hair out these last few days, my friends aren't being friends and my fiance's going into the real world, so please leave me some love. It doesn't have to be reviews. Yeah, I'm whining...sorry.**

**Sally Fantastic: Yes. That is how series two would have ended. But, then the reunion of Sherlock and John wouldn't be as emotional...or punchy. [And I'm never letting my fiance near a computer again.]  
**

**CrazyCousinEiko: No, Diana's not going to be pregnant in this version. I figured there's going to be enough drama in here without adding a baby in the mix.**

* * *

"Hello, Ms. Remus. I'm Mrs. Holmes," she smiled lightly at me.

It wasn't a _nice_ smile, but it didn't send me running for the safety of my flat either. It was a Mycroft smile. I saw where he got it.

"YOU'RE their mother?" I blurted before I knew what I was saying.

She looked rather taken aback.

"Of course I am; whom did you expect?"

"To be honest, I kind of assumed you were dead up until recently. Sherlock and Mycroft don't talk about you, so I didn't have much to go on."

"Yes, it was my eldest who told me about you. My youngest doesn't speak to me anymore. Then again, neither does my eldest. Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to prepare tea for the two of us. Now sit and tell me what went on between you and my youngest…"

She was sitting in Sherlock's chair, so I had no choice but to sit across from her in John's. Mrs. Hudson brought over the tea tray and, after a small pat on my shoulder, she left for her own flat.

"Mrs. Holmes, forgive me, but why exactly are you here?" I asked.

"As you already know, my youngest is dead."

_Ow._

"And I've been aware of what the media is making him out to be. I'm not happy about it at all, and hearing that Mycroft has not planned to do anything to rectify it did nothing to make me feel better. Then news reached my ears of a vigilante campaign to restore belief in my youngest. Naturally, I assumed his girlfriend was involved."

"Oh, I'm not – "

"Not what? Not his girlfriend, or not involved, because we both know neither of those things are true."

Well, one thing was for sure: if Mycroft was better than Sherlock, their mother was better than both of them combined.

"Miss Remus, what do you know of Sherlock's childhood?"

"Nothing. He doesn't talk about it." I admitted.

"We had only wanted one child," she explained to me. "Sherlock was a bit of an accident."

I frowned slightly. Why was she telling me this?

"He overheard his father and me talking about it one day. We had been making light of it and didn't know he was on the other side of the door. Mycroft told us later, and since then Sherlock has always felt unwanted. No matter what we did to try to convince him otherwise. And then, you came along."

"Oh?" I finally found my tongue.

"Mycroft told me Sherlock took quite a shine to you, even saying the word 'love' in conjunction with you. And while it might not mean much coming from his _heartless_ mother, thank you."

"Uh, you're welcome."

"You know, my husband's death severely affected Mycroft. He always idolized his father. Refused to believe the lies about him."

"The lies?"

The question left my mouth without my permission; I had intended only to think the words. But, she said it. It was out there in the open. There wasn't much I could do about it now.

"My husband was having an affair. Sherlock believes he was the one who found it out, but I knew long before."

I was seriously confused now. Why on earth was she telling me this?

"The official report is that my husband's death was an accident. Truth is, he was becoming a threat to both of my son's future. He had taken unnecessarily risky ventures with his business and the family wealth alike. The affair merely sealed his fate. Had he been allowed to live both Mycroft and Sherlock's future would have suffered."

"Did you just admit to killing your husband to me?"

"Of course not, why on earth would I do that?" She returned, expressionless. "However, I am letting you know that when it comes to my sons' wellbeing, I'm not one to play games."

"So why have you come here?"

All I got in return was a smile.

/

Victoria Holmes looked at the young woman in front of her. The young woman her youngest son had fallen for. The young woman who was still fighting for him and protecting in his even though she believed he was dead. Victoria had promised she would stay out of it, but recent events forced her hand. She thought back to the night her sons had come to her.

"_He's here, Mummy. As promised." Mycroft's smooth, familiar voice reached the ears of the older woman as she sat in her favorite drawing room within the walls of the private family estate._

_Victoria tightly gripped the arms of the chair she occupied for a moment, before she stood and turned calmly toward the doorway. Mycroft was already in the room, slightly off to the side… while her Sherlock remained in the doorway. He looked just as removed and poker-faced as usual; she knew that was the way he liked to be viewed._

_But she saw his guilt. His weariness. His conflict._

"_Mother." He greeted softly._

_Victoria took a few steps toward him - her piercing eyes never parting from the resurrected image of her youngest boy. "The things you've done, Sherlock…" Her tone was severe, but quietly so. This conversation was meant for her and her boys. "Mycroft has kept me informed, of course… but I am not happy."_

_Sherlock was the first to look away - turning his gaze to the floor._

"_I can fix this. All of it. That isn't a question." He started, "I will dismantle Moriarty's web, and then return to London."_

_Victoria came closer. "That… poor man." She rumbled sternly._

"_I assure you, Mother, that there is nothing 'poor' about the most dangerous criminal in London." Mycroft interrupted from his side of the room; out of the line of fire, so to speak._

"_I'm not talking about James Moriarty, Mycroft. Sherlock knows that. Do not interrupt me again." She warned briskly; successfully silencing her oldest boy, while her eyes still never left Sherlock. _

_She paused, waiting to see if the consulting detective would meet her gaze… but Sherlock kept his eyes lidded and away from her._

"_That poor doctor deserves _some_ happiness, Sherlock, and when you've finished this little crusade of yours, you will return to him, and ensure that John Watson is rebuilt properly." She instructed tightly. "After everything he's done for you, you owe him that much."_

_Sherlock still didn't look up. "You haven't even met him." He mumbled, as if it were some kind of excuse or rationale._

"_I didn't raise you to bow your head or mumble to anyone. LOOK at me, young man." Victoria snapped fiercely._

_Reluctantly, Sherlock did. She could identify the pain in his eyes, the uncertainty of this enormous task he'd set upon himself._

"_You may stay the night, but by morning I want you gone." She dictated. "I care for you deeply, but you've tangled yourself in this web by your own doing, Sherlock. You need to fix it. I cannot… will not help you. Not this time."_

_He winced, but did his best to straighten his posture. "I'll fix it. I already said I'll fix it." Sherlock restated, though more to himself than anything._

"_I hope for your sake… and the sake of Doctor Watson, that you're right." She whispered, finally lifting a frail hand to touch his cheek. "I can't protect you anymore, Sherlock."_

"_What about the girl?" Mycroft asked._

_Sherlock snapped a head toward his brother, the first motion he had made not motivated by guilt. "She is not just a girl, Mycroft."_

"_I assume you're speaking of Ms. Remus," Victoria voiced._

_Sherlock looked at her, mildly surprised._

"_Oh yes, Mycroft has told me about her as well. I didn't want to mention it, as you have far too much to think about as is, but there's nothing I can do now. I fear you may have gone too far with that once, Sherlock."_

_Pain. All she saw was pain in her youngest son's eyes._

"_You've fallen for her, Sherlock. You've come to love her and she's come to love you, though I doubt either of you have voiced that. She's in even more danger than Doctor Watson."_

"_She isn't," Sherlock protested. "I saw to that."_

"_But not to Doctor Watson?" Victoria asked, unconvinced._

_Sherlock shuffled, an action uncharacteristic of him._

"_You may have been able to fool your friends, Sherlock Holmes, but I am your mother and you can't ever fool me. You've set measure of protection for both of them, that I am sure. However, you cannot protect them from a broken heart."_

_She could see his jaw clenching, and his eyes became slightly misty; reflective in the dim light of the sitting room._

"_I can fix it." He ground out weakly._

"_You better, Sherlock. For everyone's sake."_

/

Irene Adler sat comfortably in her hotel room in Dubai. She had been reading a newspaper when the sudden urge to send a text message came over her. Well, it wasn't sudden. The paper featured an article of Sherlock Holmes, and knowing what she did she wanted to find out how Diana was doing.

**How are you? – IA**

**I assume you've heard. Sherlock is dead. – DR**

**I have. I'm sorry. Almost four months ago, the newspaper says. – IA**

**Yeah. Where are you? – DR**

**Better left unknown. – IA **

**You haven't told me how you're doing. – IA**

**Coping. – DR**

**He left a big hole in my heart. – DR**

**There are so many unanswered questions. – DR**

**Do you need me to come back? – IA**

**No. No, I don't want to risk your safety. – DR**

**I'll be fine. I'm keeping myself busy. – DR**

**Trying to restore Sherlock's name and all. – DR**

**If you need my help, just let me know. – IA**

**Thanks. – DR**

Irene looked up from her phone, upset and worried for the young woman she dared to call a friend. She rolled the newspaper in a tube and smacked the man sitting across from her across on the head.

"Ow, what was that for?" Sherlock demanded.

"I told you to be nice to her," Irene scolded.

"You know I had to do it. You better than anyone else. She's safer now."

"Safe with a broken heart?"

Sherlock flinched, the words familiar to him. Irene relented, pulling back on her emotions.

"You better fix it fast." She told him.

"You know I want to. I want to get home to her."

"Well get to work. I told you that you could stay one night. Now off to work, Mr. Holmes."


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Hey guys, so I know I've been absent for quite some time, and a lot of you were getting restless and/or worried. Don't worry, I haven't given up on these stories, but something pretty big came up that prevented me from writing for some time.**

**I was in a car accident that resulted in me waking up in a hospital bed. Don't drive drunk, or get in a car with drunk drivers. In my situation I was neither, but if someone had told this to the people who hit me, I wouldn't be in this situation.**

**I'm still a little banged up, but I'm less bitter about the ordeal and I can write again. The updates won't be frequent, but they'll be there. Sorry for the lack of info on my end.**

**Also, no one has noticed the similarity of Sherlock's mom and Diana's mom. Yet.**

* * *

This was the third time this had happened.

Sherlock had finally tracked down a member of Moriarty's crime syndicate only to find them already dead.

They were all killed by the same person, the methods were all the same, and it confused him greatly. There was no other person that he could think of that could do this. The precision and wound patterns on the bodies were vaguely reminiscent of his mother's work, but there was something off. It was similar, but there were too many little differences to be done by her.

Besides, she had made it perfectly clear that she wouldn't help.

No, this was done by someone else. Someone who knew his mother's method of fighting.

But who?

/

Mycroft stared out the window of his car, looking at the massive defacement around the city in support of his brother. He knew Diana was behind it all, but there was no proof. She had somehow gotten into the entire security system of the city. There was absolutely nothing to connect her to it; every CCTV camera wiped clean, street cameras, and even store front security footage all had portions erased from them. He had absolutely no idea how she had pulled it off, a remarkable thing for him to admit, and he was slowly becoming more and more angry.

Mycroft had promised his brother that he would keep a short distance from Diana. He was even more determined to do so after she had rattled him during their last confrontation. However, the situation was becoming more serious.

He knew that she would go to great lengths in order to clear Sherlock's name. He did not, however, think she'd stoop to public defacement. That, he had thought, was beyond her.

But then again, one of the reasons Sherlock had fallen for her was that she was so unpredictable.

Mycroft sighed and gestured for his driver to continue to Baker Street. He was going to put a stop to all this. He wanted Sherlock's name cleared just as much as she did, but there was no excuse for behaving like a delinquent.

He reached the front door and made his way inside, having gotten a key from Mrs. Hudson not too long after Sherlock's departure. A familiar smell caught his attention, but he brushed it off. The possibility of the situation running through his mind was nearly impossible.

He climbed the stairs towards Sherlock's flat, not even bothering to check Diana's. He knew she hadn't spent more than a few hours down there since Sherlock was buried.

But when he reached the top of the stairs and opened the door to the flat, he was greeted with a sight that reduced him to a teenage boy.

"Mother?"

/

I had been making tea in the kitchen while Mrs. Holmes was sitting in the living room as we prepared for a new day of strategy. When I heard the door open, I didn't think much of it. Mrs. Hudson came and went as she pleased. It was the word the I heard and the voice that uttered it that made me nearly drop the kettle.

"Mother?"

I knew exactly who it was, but I was startled by the tone of his voice. I put the kettle onto the counter hastily, trying as carefully as I could to not spill anything or catch it on the edge of the counter and drop it on the floor. When I went into the living room, I saw Mycroft standing there, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

I looked over to Mrs. Holmes, who was sitting in Sherlock's chair, as calm as ever and completely unfazed by her son's appearance.

"Well, Mycroft, I'm slightly disappointed. It took you two whole days to come here, and even then you fail to take into account the tell-tale signs that I'm here."

"The peppermint smell in the foyer," Mycroft trailed off.

"Ah, so you did notice." She smiled wryly. "I was beginning to worry you had completely lost your senses."

"But, why are you," Mycroft trailed off, the faintest hint of realization crossing his face, battling with a look of horror. "Mother, you didn't."

"Didn't what?" She returned.

"Oh, it would all make sense then," Mycroft muttered into his palms, having covered his face with them in an almost defeated motion.

"I'm a little confused," I admitted. "Does he know, or doesn't he?"

"Give him a minute, dear." Mrs. Holmes held out a hand toward me. "It's a lot to process and even the best minds can be overwhelmed."

"For the past two and a half months this city had been overrun with vandalism, all revolving around a smear campaign against James Moriarty. There's been no evidence leading the police to the culprit, and every bit of security footage that we could pull up has been tampered with. Now I see why."

"If you're going to accuse me of something, Mycroft, I suggest you do it." I spat.

He turned to me, a slight look of shock covering his face. I couldn't really blame him. The last time we saw each other, I probably looked like hell warmed over. But since Mrs. Holmes turned up things had changed drastically.

That woman was brilliant and mad. The moment we became partners in crime she had taken it upon herself to 'train' me. I had become more fit, and my faded red hair had been dyed a dark brown. It was safe to say that I was practically a different person.

"I would," Mycroft said, finally regaining use of his tongue, "Were it not for the fact that you couldn't have possibly hacked into every possible method of security to cover your tracks."

I snorted unattractively.

"You're right, I couldn't. Thankfully your mother was more than willing to help."

"Mother, how could you?"

"Don't start with me, Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes snapped. "You know full well why I had to. I've sat by silently for too long, and I have a lot of repaying to do. If this is the least I can do for Sherlock, then I will."

"But you said – "

"Not another word about it."

"What I don't understand is how you got access in the first place."

"Oh, sweetheart, you forget why you have ties to the British government in the first place."

"Yeah," I interjected, direction my question at Mycroft, "If MI6 is England's worst kept secret, then how come they got so got at keeping MI7 under wraps?"

"Because they had me, dear." Mrs. Holmes answered.

"Mother, that is highly classified information; what were you thinking telling them to a civilian?"

"That is the second time you've presumed to chastise me, Mycroft Holmes. I suggest you do not make it a third."

I looked back and forth between mother and son. I got a rude satisfaction from seeing Mycroft put in his place, especially by his mother.

"Besides," Mrs. Holmes continued, "I've taken Diana under my wing. I've been training her how to fight, to travel unseen and to kill silently."

"You – you've turned her into an assassin?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"Well how else are we going to take down Moriarty's organization? I mean, they're still out there. You're mother isn't going to let them get away with Sherlock's death, unlike another Holmes I could mention, and I sure as hell won't."

Mycroft looked at his mother, who had remained calmly in her seat, a mixture of emotions pouring over his face.

"Mother, may I please speak to you in private?" My croft asked, his voice strained, turning to me. "Alone."

"This is my house," I bit back.

"Diana, please." Mrs. Holmes instructed gently.

I pursed my lips, but nodded my head. "Yes, ma'am."

I started to walk out the living room when Mrs. Holmes stopped me.

"Downstairs."

I huffed. She was good.

And there was no possible way to fool her into thinking I hadn't stayed behind to eavesdrop if I did.

"Yes ma'am."

Yet again I'd be left in the dark.

/

"I cannot believe you've done this, Mother." Mycroft was pacing along the floor. "I thought you said you wouldn't help."

"I did, but I instructed you to do so."

"I have helped."

"The bare minimum. You've grown lazy, Mycroft."

"What would you have me do? Poster London up and down, like Diana? Train her to become an assassin and do a job Sherlock is already doing?"

"I underestimated Sherlock once; I'm not doing it again. I don't doubt his abilities to dismantle the organization and come home, but I do want this process expedited. I'm tired of seeing my son slandered in the news and I found someone who will help me help Sherlock."

"But turning her into an assassin?"

"Just like Sherlock, I won't dare underestimate her. She's got more potential than either of you gave her."

"I've seen her angry; I know she isn't one to be trifled with."

"I'm not talking about anger. There's raw talent there. She knows how to shoot a gun and she's skilled at knife throwing. It gave me plenty to work with. In fact, she reminds me of a young me."

"Well God save us all, then."

"Watch your tongue, young man."

"And when Sherlock finds out?" Mycroft pressed, ignoring his mother's order. "Will he thank you for turning her into a killer?"

"You make it sound like I turned her into Jim Moriarty." Mrs. Holmes fought back. "She's not doing it for pleasure or profit."

"But revenge makes it acceptable?"

"No, not revenge. Love. Love is a more powerful motivator."

"Was it love that motivated you to kill father?"

Mrs. Holmes stopped, taken aback at her son's forwardness. It was no surprise that he knew, but the fact that he said it out loud caught her off guard. He had never said a word about it.

"Sherlock can never find out," he continued. "If he does, we'll all lose."

"I know, but I can't make any promises."

"I was afraid you'd say that."


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: Aagh! I'm not dead! I know you guys have been anxious about having a new chapter, and I've been trying. However, as the majority of you know, there's been a lot on my plate and my stories have had to be put on the back burner. Not only that, but they're drawing to a close, and finding the right way to give you, as my faithful readers, a proper send-off is difficult. **

**I can't promise a new chapter any time soon, but know that I'm trying and I love you all so dearly!**

**Also, these won't be my last stories here, so worry not!**

* * *

Sherlock picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.

**Went to your grave today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn't you? -JW**

**I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you'll come back. -JW**

**The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren't thirsty. -JW**

**I've started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can't deal with that place right now. -JW**

**I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can't, though. I keep thinking that you'll come back. -JW**

**Please come back, Sherlock. –JW**

**Moved in with Stamford for the time being. Can't handle the flat right now. – JW **

**She misses you too. Diana. She's started acting like you. - JW**

**I won't even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW**

**I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW**

**My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she's right. Then again, I don't know what's right anymore, though. -JW**

**You're probably not even getting any of this. -JW**

**Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn't do it. -JW**

**Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW**

**I don't think Sally's too pleased. Diana apparently had words with her. She seemed nicer about you. -JW**

**They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn't let them. Diana wouldn't let them touch anything in your room, probably in case you do come back some day. –JW**

**She's sleeping in your room. - JW**

**I'm having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it's always too late. Always. -JW**

**I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can't do anything right. -JW**

**I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally leapt, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW**

**God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you're alive. Please. -JW**

Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John and Diana in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.

He missed them.

A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive. Though he wished Diana would text him too.

**I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW**

**Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I'd rather not, though. It's not helping. Diana says fuck it. I agree. -JW**

**It still hurts, Sherlock. It's been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW**

**I still can't understand why you would do this. Especially to her. - JW**

**I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW**

Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.

It was done.

The web was disintegrated.

And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.

**Put the kettle on. –SH**

But just before he could send the message, one from his brother interrupted it.

**One more. Almost slipped under our radar. Sending the location. – MH**

Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly. There was no need to send the text now. It had been kicked to the draft folder thanks to his brother's uncanny ability to ruin the mood. Sherlock sighed and squared his shoulders, ready to get the _final_ last job out of the way.

/

The warehouse was small, dingy, and well off the beaten trail, the perfect arena to perform any seedy or underhanded business and I hated that I found myself standing outside this building, but I had to in order to get to my last target. I had already dirtied my new boots coming down to this part of town and now my clothes were going to smell like smoke for days. The stale smell was creeping into the street, and there was no doubt I'd find tons of cigarette butts all over the place.

I adjusted my jacket, making sure everything was covered, and checked to make sure no one was around before I entered the building. Pushing the large door slightly, I crept in quietly and closed it behind me. According to my sources, he shouldn't be home, but I paused and waited to hear any signs of movement. Satisfied that there was no one, I crept to the nearest hiding place: the cupboard under the stairs. How very Harry Potter of me.

I heard the door open and my target walk up the stairs I was hiding under. As soon as I was in the clear, I opened the cupboard and took out a slim syringe out of the leather holster on my hip. Taking out a little jar of clear liquid, I filled the syringe and crept upstairs, thankfully not hitting any creaking points.

The idiot had left the door behind him open. Of course, he had no idea that someone would be coming for him. Without hesitation, I jammed the syringe into his jugular and pushed down on the plunger. He collapsed immediately, falling to his knees and then crumpling to the floor. Crinkling my nose slightly, I bent down and grunted as I turned him onto his back.

"Seth Perkins," I said as I gazed at the wide-eyed man on the floor. "You look exactly like your picture."

I gave a small chuckle, pulling the jar back out of my holster.

"Pancuronium bromide," I told him, shaking the jar slightly for emphasis. "In the U.S. they use it as the second step for lethal injection. The first step is the anesthetic that causes unconsciousness, but sadly I didn't give you that." I gave an overdramatic and insincere frown. "I doubt you know what pancuronium bromide is, but I'm sure you can guess what it does. Complete, fast and sustained paralysis of the muscles attached to bones, including the diaphragm and the rest of the respiratory muscles. If I left you like this, you'd end up being asphyxiated. But I think we both know I'm not going to do that."

I pulled a long thin knife out of its place in my boot and positioned it horizontally over Seth's eyes.

"You probably don't know what this is either," I mused. "It's called a stiletto knife. It was developed in the 14th century as a mercy knife, to end the suffering of a mortally wounded knight. In the 16th century, some assassins would thrust the knife deep into their victim, then twist the blade sharply in various directions before retracting it, causing severe internal damage that wouldn't be visible if one were to look at the entrance wound externally."

I brought the knife down to the side of Seth's torso that was closest to me, keeping my eyes trained on his face.

"Shall we test that theory?"

I stuck the dagger in his abdomen, twisting it around in the manner I had described. I had to struggle to keep the emotions off my face; Victoria had been very adamant that even in their last moments your victim couldn't see you falter.

On the inside, however, I was reeling, trying hard not to vomit. I didn't like all the blood, and I didn't like hurting people. Sure, I could kill someone. I'd feel horrendously guilty afterwards, but I could do it. But the only way I would want to would be to shoot someone, and only if it were in self-defense. Victoria Holmes's signature method, though, was much more up close and personal.

I was ready to be done with it and return home.

I pulled the dagger out of its sheath of flesh, clenching my jaw as I tried to remain expressionless as I was met with the sight of blood pouring out of the hole in his side. I would never be used to that sight, and I would never want to be.

Seth wasn't dead yet; he was close, and the struggled breaths told me I didn't have long. I leaned close to his ear, making sure he heard my next words clearly.

"This is for contributing to my boyfriend's death, you son of a bitch."

Finishing Victoria's signature, I lanced Seth through the center of his throat, finally killing him. I grabbed the edge of his shirt to clean the blood off the blade before I put it back in its case in my boot.

I hadn't been paying attention. I had been too focused on trying to keep my emotions guarded and stop the relief that it would all be over from flooding over me.

I didn't hear him when he crept up behind me, and by the time I had stood up from placing the dagger in my boot I had the barrel of a gun to the back of my head.

I was frozen, not wanting to make a false move so whomever it was that had the gun to my head didn't have an excuse to pull the trigger. Taking in a deep breath, I plunged into a very risky series of maneuvers.

I stepped out from the barrel and jammed my elbow into his gut, sending him reeling for just enough time to knock the gun from his hand. He regained his composure and knocked me across the face. I went to strike back, but he was faster.

I found myself pinned to the wall, his arm pressed firmly against my throat. It wasn't the crushing sensation against my windpipe that caused all the air to escape my lungs, but rather the face of my attacker.

I couldn't believe it.

I didn't even _want _to believe it.

But there he was, and I could only muster enough brainpower through the shock to say his name.

"Sherlock."


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: FINAL CHAPTER!**

**It's a short one, but I hoped I wrapped up everything nicely. I hope to start a new story sometime soon, so drop me suggestions if you have a particular fandom/ship/whatever you'd like to see.**

**If you haven't already and want to, you can stalk my Tumblr: thepeacockvampire**

* * *

Sherlock jumped away as if he'd been burned.

"Diana." He breathed.

"What….I don't," I struggled, my voice shaking, torn with shock and the aftereffects of adrenaline. "What the fuck? How? Why?"

"I've been dismantling Moriarty's organization."

"But you're dead."

"It was all fake, to protect you and John. I had to make sure you were safe."

All I could do was stare; my head shaking slightly with disbelief.

"Mycroft's been helping me with each one. He told me about him," Sherlock explained, gesturing to the corpse on the floor. "And I wanted to catch the person imitating my mother's killing style, so I got here as soon as I could, knowing whoever it was would be here too."

My stomach churned uncomfortably, "M-Mycroft knows."

Sherlock nodded grimly, "My mother too."

I was shocked. I was stunned. I had the overwhelming urge to vomit. I had spent so much time avoiding becoming Moriarty's pawn that I had stumbled my way into being one for Mycroft and Victoria.

My mind was an absolute blank, my mouth hanging open unattractively like a fish.

"I should kill you for what you put John and me through." I finally managed, though the fire behind my words was small.

"I know." Was all he said in reply.

"You know? No, I don't think you do. I mean, what did you think would happen? We saw you die. We watched as your body was put on a stretcher and taken away from us. We buried you!"

"Diana – "

"No! No, you don't get to talk," I was crying now. "You don't dare get the chance to justify what you did. You put us through hell! And for what, to protect us? We were devastated! A huge part of our life was ripped away with practically no explanation! Look what it did to me! I killed because of you!"

Sherlock flinched.

"My mother never should have – "

"Your mother isn't the one to blame here, Sherlock." I interrupted him again. "She may have done things she shouldn't have, but it's nothing compared to what you did."

Not wanting to stay in a crime scene any longer than I had to, much less in the presence of Sherlock, I turned and began to walk away.

"Diana, wait."

I spun around, meeting Sherlock's pleading eyes with a hand to halt him from coming closer.

"The next time you speak to me, it better be _after_ you've told John."

With that, I left him alone, with only a corpse for company.

/

Mycroft sat in his office in the Diogenes Club, barely concealing his nerves. He had taken a huge risk in sending Sherlock to the same location that Diana had been sent to.

But was it a necessary risk? He didn't know.

He heard a loud commotion coming from outside his office. The last time something like this had happened, Diana had nearly beaten the staff to a bloody pulp. He got up and rushed out to the foyer, seeing the men in a state similar to the one he had previously found them in. Except this time, instead of merely standing there looking murderous, Diana had drawn a gun, letting it hang casually at her side.

"Don't make me fire this Mycroft. I'm so pissed I just might. Don't give me an excuse."

Mycroft nodded and quickly ushered Diana into his office. He took the gun out of her hands, though he didn't know if she actually intended to use it. Better safe than sorry.

"Do you want to explain," Diana began, sitting in the chair opposite to Mycroft, "why your brother is alive? Why you and he thought it was a good idea to convince John and me that he was dead?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but Diana held up a silencing hand.

"No, wait. I don't care. You're probably going to give me the same speech about wanting to protect us, but that's utter bullshit. That kind of deceit isn't protective." Diana narrowed her eyes at Mycroft, causing him to gulp audibly, "Just know you owe John and me for every second we thought Sherlock was dead. You might want to start thinking of ways you'll make it up to us."

With that, she snatched her gun off the table and walked out the door, holstering it as she went.

/

I climbed the familiar steps of 221B Baker Street, this time my heart beating hard in my chest.

I had just gotten used to the idea of Sherlock being dead. I had finally stopped crying myself to sleep. And now he comes back?

I opened the door to Sherlock and John's flat – it felt so weird to call it that again – and saw Sherlock sitting in the leather chair he used to always occupy. My eyebrows furrowed slightly as I noticed the state his face was in.

"John got you pretty bad, huh?" I commented, gesturing lamely to his injuries.

"This was from John," Sherlock replied, pointing to his split lip. His finger moved upward to indicate the dark purple bruise forming under his eye, "This was from Mrs. Hudson."

_Go Mrs. Hudson_, I thought.

"I was there, you know." Sherlock started. I didn't have time to ask where exactly he was referring to, because he carried on speaking. "At the graveyard. I heard what you said."

"Oh," I said, not really knowing what else to say.

"Do you…what I mean to ask is, erm… do you –"

"Do I still love you?" I asked, not bothering to hide the small smile that tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Yes."

"Of course I do, Sherlock. Do you really think I would have done the things I did if I didn't love you anymore?"

"I would have preferred it if you hadn't," he confessed stiffly.

"What was I supposed to do? You were dead. I was done playing the victim and I wanted those responsible to pay. And they did."

There was silence between us. I wasn't uncomfortable. There was just a lot of things to say, and neither of us knew where to start.

"I missed you," Sherlock confessed. He had gotten out of his chair, I hadn't even noticed, and was standing in front of me.

"I missed you too," I replied. I didn't want to admit I was glad he was back; I was still upset about the fact he had left.

Sherlock took my hands in his and brought them up to his lips, kissing my knuckles first, then moving down to kiss each fingertip.

"Sherlock, no." I protested weakly, the return of his lips to my flesh making my head buzz. "I'm still so very angry with you.

He lifted his head slightly, locking his eyes with mine. Dozens on emotions flickered behind them, making the buzz in my head louder and the feeling in my legs start to go.

"Please," said Sherlock, the man who never begged for anyone. "Please. We've been apart for too long. You can be as angry as you want tomorrow. Please."

I looked into his blue eyes, my heart nearly coming out of my chest, and our lips crashed together. Sensual, painful, every emotion expressed as our lips molded together.

I didn't even register that we had started moving until I hit his mattress forcefully.

Like his brother, Sherlock had a lot to make up for. But I was more than okay with him beginning his recompensing with pure ecstasy.


	39. E-book Plans

**A/N**

**Hello all! It's been quite some time since I've posted here, but as the chapter title suggests, I'm planning on turning this into an e-book. It'll be in .mobi and .epub formats so it can be read on different types of e-readers. There will be new scenes added, as well as the grammar and formatting issues in this version fixed!**

**This is where you guys come in!**

**First off, is this a thing you want?**

**Secondly, can you make a cover for this story or know someone who could?**

**Please let me know what you guys think. After all, I'm doing this for you!**


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